


Don't wanna fight this War

by mangacrack



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Background Slash, Elrond is a Honorary Fëanorian, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Fourth Age, M/M, References to the usual horrors of the First Age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: The last Elves of Middle Earth sail to Valinor. With them is one of the few people Fëanor claimed to be his friend.~"It's not my fault that I had to stay behind and clean up your father's mess."





	1. Best Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I signed up for the Fëanorian ~~Fun~~ Bingo. I will do my best to write this with the absolute minimum of angst, but ... well, there will be recaps and flashes of more awful times. Warning: light angst and chapters will be sprinkled with twincest and some minor slash.
> 
> Title was taken from this beautiful song: [ Daughtry - Battleships](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bj0MwP1_fw)

No one had known that they were coming. That itself is not much of a surprise, most of the residents on this boat had been reluctant to leave Middle Earth behind. Yet even the most stubborn had been force to retreat as the centuries flew by and the world changed.

"It still astonishes me that you're among the people, who waited until the very last moment," Celeborn says as they get closer to the harbour. Calls are directing them where to tow their boats and from here Erestor can see how much excitement this unexpected arrival brings. "As Noldo I always thought you'd yearn to travel to Aman."

His eyes are studying his surroundings, the other ships and the waving people. From what he gathers this place is relatively new, a mix of many cultures and influences. With a pang of guilt and relief Erestor concludes this is not Alqualondë. A part of him prepared himself for this possibility, yet now he's glad that he doesn't have to stare down this ghost.

Erestor turns to Celeborn. The last centuries forced a lot of people to become unlikely friends since the rest of their kin had been unreachable. Either dead, lost in time or simply because set foot on one of the ships long before them.

"I have been here before," he finally admits and his mouth twitches as Celeborn's eyebrows travel up to his hairline.

"You are _that old?"_ Celeborn wants to know. "How come you never told me that you were born in Valinor?"

His voice is almost drowned out by Thranduil's orders, who had taken command of their planned journey as soon as they had convinced him to finally leave the fading Greenwood. Though he was the oldest Celeborn hadn't minded to yield his place as a leader. His Telerin roots and his time in Lindon hadn't made him an expert in sailing and building ships, while Thranduil had needed the distraction.

Erestor on the other hand had been a quiet, but very knowledgeable advisor. Celeborn witnessed how he tracked down alternative sources, went through Círdan's old books or caught him reading up inventions the Edain made throughout the history. In the end they modelled their ships after a Numenorean idea, since it held the promise to last months on open sea and they didn't know if they would make into the west at all. After a long discussion Celeborn agreed that they should put safety first and put historical aesthetics at the last. A sensible proposal, though it perplexed Celeborn how many Erestor got to vote for his idea to forgo the more popular Telerin design.

The truth is that Celeborn doesn't know that much about the Noldo, other than that he served Elrond for ages. The twins have known him since their birth and even they admitted that their teacher's origin is a bit shrouded. Or maybe they knew the truth and refused to bring up ancient history again by confessing that their grandfather missed to avoid a surviving Kinslayer.

Perhaps he should be questioning further at the relevation, but Celeborn catches the wary look Erestor throws at the noisy fisherman and the growing excitement around them. It won't be long now until they can leave the boat. Yet the Noldo next to him looks as he would rather go below and hide there until he can sneak off unseen.

Erestor pulls a face and shrugs. He doesn't look as if the journey here plagued with nightmares. From past experiences Celeborn has learned that Erestor possesses a very rational mind and will only yield to logical arguments, not ones born out of pride and questionable history accounts.

"I never corrected the assumption that I was born in the First Age. In the end it didn't matter that I had been part of three Kinslayings instead of just two." Erestor glowers as he says, "After a certain point it would have been too much of a bother to explain myself."

"I assume you mean my dear wife?" Celeborn replys in good nature.

Centuries of living in the same settlement and joining Erestor in the effort to keep the twins out of trouble taught him a bit of Erestor's carefully hidden personal opinions.

Time and growing loneliness mellowed them both, since Erestor sends a wry grin instead of an irritated growl. Around them the first passengers are leaving the ships, wide-eyed and full of awe at their surroundings. Aman is so much brighter than Middle Earth has been lately, yet neither of the ancient Elves is in rush. They waited and struggled with their decision to make this journey for so long that a few more minutes won't matter.

"Artanis doesn't remember me. She was a young and foolish girl the few times we met. But that's always been this way, people don't remember me." The accompanying hand gesture is dismissive, as if Erestor could never be bothered to join the family drama surrounding the House of Finwë. "I have always been glad to stay out of the spotlight."

"Lies!" someone screams and interrupts the commotion at the dock.

Celeborn spots a tall and dark-haired Elf close to the edge. One well aimed jump would be enough for him to join them on deck. It's exactly what he does, though Celeborn still has the time to take in the comfortable stance, the light-footed way he moves and lands on the railing with ease and gentleness. The boat barely quivers as the Elf joins them just a few feet away. Up close Celeborn is dead sure he's looking at a Noldo. The features are distinctive, in a way few things had been in Middle Earth anymore. Three Ages of slow mingling turned divisions like _Sindar, Silvan_ and _Noldor_ into a choice of lifestyle rather than a truth you had been born with.

The old Sindar turns to Erestor to make a comment, but stops when he sees the shocked expression.

Erestor is frozen on a spot, speechless in a manner Celeborn has never witnessed before. In all those years he has known him, Erestor has always quick on his feet. A good tactician, an excellent warrior and someone you can count on to fulfill the task appointed to him, no matter to the costs. Even if he complained about the weather and uncomfortable boots all along the way. 

The foreign Noldor is still crouching on the railing. Since Erestor seems to have trouble processing what he's seeing, he opens and closes his mouth like a fish, their visitor greets Celeborn with: "Don't let him fool you. This one likes to hide his brilliant mind behind a pretty face and a lot of stubbornness. He caused a lot of mischief as a child."

"That's rich, coming from you," Erestor croaks. One look is enough to determine he is on the verge of tears, but to Celeborn's great relief they are tears of happiness.

With a smile a pulls back, since it's obvious that this is a reunion of those who care great deal about each other. Not lovers, if he has to guess. Within the Noldorin history it's more common to lose most, if not all of your kin and you're left behind to found a new family without any House or family to fall back on. One reason why the Noldor left Middle Earth so much earlier than Celeborn's own people was the hope to be reunited with those they had been separated from.

While the Kinslayings cost the Sindar one or two generations, the Noldor suffered from the loss of entire realms. Celeborn is not proud that it took him long to grasp the sheer number of people Galadriel had seen fall. Yet it's exactly this faint feeling of hope, of encountering something good again without struggling through loss and grief in return, that finally made him sail West.

Celeborn doesn't look back as he sets foot on this new land. One day he will track down Erestor and get the story out of him, but the glimmer of silver hair in the distance causes him forget the strange encounter. The face of his daughter and his wife blow away any inkling of familiarity he might've felt towards the strange Noldor that is now busy hugging Erestor.

  


-

  


"I had not thought you would turn my last words to you into a challenge," Fëanor whispers. He's still holding Erestor in a tight embrace and refuses to let go.

"No one has ever accused me of having bright ideas," Erestor mumbles into his shirt, having buried his face in his friend's tunic. A mixture of emotions wrecks his famous composure and he's not ashamed of the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You are the last to join us, aside from Elrond's sons. Everyone else is safe and back already," Fëanor says as he rubs circles over his best friend's back. Working friends and family through they grief and their surprise of seeing again is nothing new by now. To the surprise of many he had been one of the first Elves to return. A fact that had been questioned until it became apparent how many of the newly returned sought him out, seeking his approval. He might not be their King anymore, but in the end the Noldor recognized him as the reason why they uprooted themselves to join a gruesome and almost hopeless war.

Hearing Fëanáro himself tell them that they did good, that their sacrifice had been _worth_ dying for, helped them heal and for him it had been a way to contribute. To give back strength and fill the minds of their people with curiosity again as they recounted all the new discoveries they made in Beleriand.

It didn't matter what King they served once, the re-embodied all sought him out in order to tell him of their first life and how it ended. Some had screamed, many had cried and a few had apologized. It had been difficult at times, to be the first person they saw after walking out of Mandos, yet Fëanor can appreciate Lord Námo's intention behind it. Otherwise his own anger might have boiled down to an all compassing feeling of helplessness.

His greatest fault, aside from a few others he made, had been dying so early in the war.

Perhaps it had been Fëanor's fear of _too little, too late_ what caused Námo to release him far earlier than anticipated.

Yet whatever grief he went trough, undeserved or not, Fëanor would do it all over again if it means that he can now assure his oldest friend that everything is alright.

Erestor is still looking at him with wonder, as if he can not believe what his eyes are telling him. Fëanor has seen the expression in his children. In all of those, who witnessed his death. Yet unlike everyone else he had only asked Erestor to remain behind.

' _Look after them',_ he once had asked, entrusting his best friend the welfare of his children.

He should've known that Erestor would dig his heels in until he deemed the task as fulfilled.

Four Ages of true loyalty. Three of them, because Makalaurë adopted two tiny Elflings and remembered that his own father once degreed that his best friend is more of a brother to him than the rest of Finwë's sons. Today, Fëanor would retract his harsh words. Nolofinwë and Arafinwë have proven themselves worthy of his respect.

Yet the truth is that he will never love them as he loves Erestor.

No one else waded through rivers of blood in order to look after his brood of unruly children, wreaking havoc and yet defending them to their last breath.

"Thank you, brother," Fëanor whispers to the person, who was there when Míriel left him, who teased him endlessly when he met Nerdanel and who cried with him when Maitimo was born.

Who swore another, far more important oath when his King lay dying leagues away from Angband.

They stand like this, wrapped in each other's arms, foreheads pressed together until Erestor believes this is real. Until he hears ruckus approaching the by now abandoned ship and a twist of his neck gifts him with the sight of the entire House of Fëanáro. Each and every single one of the boys he was there to greet when they were born, aside from Elrond. Who looks good, better than Erestor has seen him in a long time and who has to obviously resist the urge to take his two fathers by his hands - like the little Elfling he once was.

In comparison Elladan and Elrohir look worn out, tired and thin, but they are grinning happily - at the Ambarussa. The first pair of twins they have ever seen among their kind and have heard so much about. They are so distracted that they don't even have eyes for Maitimo, another soul Erestor barely recognizes.

Gone is the tortured General, who went after Dragons and Balrogs at the end of the First Age. Who lost himself in battles until he didn't know how to stop, when Beleriand sunk beneath the waves.

"Uncle Erestor, bloody time you're back," Caranthir hollers, his arms wrapped around a set of Elves that must be Celegorm and Curufin.

Who look so happy and relaxed that Erestor barely recognizes them. His memories from Aman, from his first and very diffent life, are far away and have been washed out by time and distance. But they are still there, like a dusty old book that he kept in the attic, buried under years of useless rubble. 

Eventually Erestor huffs and climbs off the boat.

"It's not my fault that I had to stay behind and clean up your father's mess like always," he says.

He earns himself a slap on the back of his head for it, but Erestor can only laugh at Fëanor's feigned indignation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fëanor's Best Friends
> 
> It might be the reason why I'm going post this as collection of losely connected one-shots and not as a series. I mourn the fact that Fëanor's best friends don't receive more attention. There's the scene in the book ... _"There upon the confines of Dor Daedeloth, the land of Morgoth, Fëanor was surrounded, with few friends about him."_ ... which I always wanted to explore, so here we are. And since I like a good Erestor Origin Story ... why the hell not? I love it when Erestor is a Fëanorian Follower, so why not make him the First Fëanorian Follower™? Which also makes a lot of sense, in a certain way. In order to be friends with Fëanor you probably have to call him out on his bullshit a lot, because the only other option is to leave him at the side of the road.


	2. On the Road Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Space: On the road again.

Coming to Aman is a ... change. Neither Elladan nor Elrohir are happy with the decision. They'd have liked to drag the decision out, but they could see the tiredness in the faces of the few remaining Elves that still lived in Middle Earth. Unlike Celeborn or Thranduil, they lived among Men for the better parts of their lives, centuries they roamed through Arnor with Rangers at their side, long after the Kingdom fell. They also travelled a lot, after the Ring War they finally had the freedom to do it. Tales of Valinor and Tirion always made them hesitate instead of eager.

They aren't like Erestor, who remembers the rebellion against the Valar and what it cost the Noldor to leave the Blessed Land in the first place.

From what they gleamed from their kin over the years, the twins imagined Valinor as rather small. How can a single island, no matter how beautiful, compare to the vastness that is the rest of Arda? Yet the day came where they had to admit defeat. Either they would board the ship or they will risk never seeing anyone of their family again.

After the initial joy of being reunited with their parents, both of them healthier than ever, restlessness settled into their bones pretty soon. Elladan endures cities a bit better than his brother, but huge crowds of unfamiliar people are uncommon for them. Unless you're counting the armies they fought over the years. The city at the harbour, it's not Alqualondë they have been told, is considered _small_ in comparison to Tirion and that was almost too much for them. Elladan watches how Elrohir grinds his teeth and smiles out of politeness, but a sense of ease never settles in.

There are just too many people. Too many Elves. Most of them Teleri who have been born in Aman, mixed with Círdan's people or others who spent most of their live near the sea.

It sets Elladan on the edge and he has to fight the urge to buy a horse, grab his weapons and _run._

Elrohir mused that it would be impolite to run off three days after setting foot on a strange land. Not that they expect trouble, they have fought all that there is to fight. Middle Earth was never _safe_ and it took them centuries to get rid of the remaining Nazgul. It had been a compromise. They would sail, yes. But not before the last of the old evils had been hunted down.

It involved conquering Khazad-Dûm side by side with the Dwarves, cleaning out Mirkwood from spiders and watch Mordor turn into a green, beautiful patch of land again. It wasn't always ease, yet even the two decades Elladan lived only with his twin by his side in the last outskirts of Angmar, watching the evil taint fade from the land with each passing year, was more comfortable than this.

"You look unhappy," one of the Ambarussa says and steps out of the shadows.

Elladan shrugs. It's true that he remained behind while most of the other new arrivals chose to explore the bustling harbor. His extended family rented rooms in an inn for the duration of their stay, but currently it's only him lingering in a corner and watching the strange world outside through the window. It reminds him off all the times where he mocked Estel of doing the same.

Stars, Estel. Setting Valinor feels like a betrayal to his brother. Leaving behind his heirs, his beautiful city and his people he fought for his entire life. Here, in Aman, are no descendants of Numenor. No Men. None at all, because Tuor doesn't count if he's still alive. Riding through the dark, dusty and occasionally horrifying places of Eriador always felt more like home than the potted plants in the window of this bar.

"I don't want to be here," Elladan admits. "If that makes any sense."

Anyone else he'd have chased off by now. He has a short temper these days. He hasn't even spoken to his mother more than absolutely necessary. Elrohir not much better. But right now they better off steaming in their misery alone. Or else they will step out of the door never to be seen again this century. It's been a long time since they needed anyone but each other. So out of politeness to his kin, Elladan keeps away from Elrohir as well. Well, if you can a distance two horse length as _separation ._ Elladan doesn't have to drop his shields in order to know that his brother is sitting on the roof, wallowing in his thought just like he does.

"Please trust me if I tell you how much I actually understand you." Elladan watches how one of the Ambarussa shakes of his boots and pulls up a chair, stretching his long legs out on the bench Elladan is sitting on.

Raising one eyebrow as one foot pokes into his side is the friendliest Elladan can think of and somehow he doesn't end up wanting to punch Amras into the face when the Fëanorian sends him a grin. It's one of the ' _Eat Dirt, Brother'_ ones that Elladan knows from his own twin. Something about it makes him relax.

He lets Amras talk.

"Oh yeah, don't give me that look. You and your brother have been prowling through the streets like trapped animals, it's obvious that neither of you is happy with the idea of coming to Aman. I bet you resented the idea of coming here far more than your Sindar grandfather." Amras leans forwards and lowers his voice as if he's telling a secret. "Don't tell me that you and your lovely twin brother haven't thought about simply going _back_ one day."

Elladan notices for the first time that the Ambarussa wear their hair rather short. It's a tone of deep red, a colour not often found among the Eldar and yet they don't seem to put much pride in it. It's just long enough to pull it together in case you need to get the strands out of your face, but that's it. Not much material to go for, when you think about complicated braids and beautiful adornments.

In fact, he has the appearance of someone rather bathes in cold rivers than hot bath tubes with lots of servants standing attention with lotions, oils and hairbrushes in their arms.

The Son of Elrond allows himself to chuckle. It's the first time he laughs in this strange god-damned place.

"Are we that transparent?" He asks and a bone deep fear begins to evaporate.

Through the long years of his life neither Elladan nor Elrohir never had what other would call long lasting friends. In Imladris they were born into a time, where various fractions still discussed if Elrond should take Gil-galad's crown. By the time the argument was settled, it was too late to form a deep connection with their age-mates and the other realms weren't very forth coming either. Legolas is the only one who got close, but even that took time and Estel's intervention, because history - old and more recent - made it difficult to overcome pre-judge.

There's a reason why the Sons of Elrond always gravitated towards the Rangers. Well, and each other of course.

Amras takes a sip of his drink.

"I can see it in your eyes, Son of Elrond. You walk through the streets as if you are expecting prison guards around the corner. I have seen you play the distraction, while your brother observes our reactions, trying to figure out the rules of a hidden game."

"We never liked being told where to go," Elladan murmurs. His voice his low and deep in his mind he wonders how it would feel like to run his hands through Amras' hair.

At this, the Fëanorian grins and his age flashes through. Now he's no longer the youngest and least well-known son of a historic legend that shook Elladan's hand a few days ago. Instead he's a hunter, a warrior and Lord who fought Morgoth's Shadow for centuries. He looks ... compelling, though Elladan is sure that he has barely moved an inch.

The air is heavy between them as Amras says, "What would you and your brother do, if you were handed a map and some supplies for the road?"

Desire pools in Elladan's gut and it's not just the prospect of leaving behind the city, the odd language and the scent of salt on his tongue.

His answering smile is an easy one and Elladan edges close enough to feel the Fëanorian's breath on his lips. "I'd ask the Ambarussa to accompany us. For it will ease my parent's fears if we some experienced guides at our side."

"As long as you don't expect us to keep you out of trouble, we would be delighted to get you out of here," Amras answers him, before he gently wraps a hand around Elladan's neck.

The kiss is hot, far from chaste and the warmest welcome Elladan ever had so far on this god-damned island. But the prospect of _more_ and the thought of riding out into the wild as soon as possible makes him think that maybe Valinor isn't so bad after all. Elrohir's content pleasure in the back of his mind tells him that his twin thinks the same.

  


-

  


"How long to think it's going to take?" Fëanor wants to know as he watches Elrohir and Amrod pack.

The horses are already waiting, which means the twin pairs are going to be gone before the hour is out. Through the dark and narrow hallway he can hear the low murmurs, snatches of travel plans being made. Yet he can't determine how long they will be gone. Not that Fëanor worries for their safety. His youngest sons are capable warriors and move with a confidence that comes from never having been lost or broken like the rest of his line. Though they usually are polite enough to inform a member of the family that they're riding out.

"I estimate they will be gone for a few weeks at least. Months perhaps." Erestor murmurs. He doesn't look from his glass, but from what Fëanor can tell he's not overly worried either. "I will never tell Elrond how close he got to never seeing any of his children again."

"They refused to travel West?" Fëanor wants to know.

"Had it been up to them, they would have never left," Erestor answers and then refuses to say anything more.

About Elrond he heard from Nelyafinwë and Makalaurë. He's also a rather famous history figure, someone he easily connected with once they met. Of course there had been apprehension on Elrond's side if he's truly welcome in this family, but thankfully all of his newfound uncles made sure resolve those fears. Celebrimbor's return, perfectly timed with Elrond having trouble to settle after arriving in Aman, helped a lot.

The second set of twins, though Fëanor has more difficulties of assessing.

He wishes to welcome them with the same love and possessiveness he shows towards his children, but he's unsure about the reception he will receive.

It makes him so much more grateful that Erestor is there to tie them together. As much as he wanted his friend to return after he learned that he survived the First Age, he can understand why he didn't. Why he held out so long. It's not pride, it's not spite either. It's not the memory of the rebellion against the Valar that kept Erestor away. Rather it's an even older conviction that the Eldar should've never travelled to Aman in the first place. Fëanor often sat with Erestor, watching the horizon and together they wondered what waited beyond it.

Elladan and Elrohir are the embodiment of Fëanor always imagined their kin beyond the sea would be like.

He waited more than three Ages to meet them. He can wait a bit longer.

Ambarussa will take care of them, out of similar reasons and return when they are ready.

"Sit down. They will be fine." Erestor grunts as the sound of hooves fades into the distance and Fëanor still stares down the narrow corridor. He puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back down. "Stop worrying, they aren't your great-grandchildren _yet_."

"But you think they will be?" Fëanor sounds a touch too hopeful.

Erestor snorts and sends his friend a long pointed look.

"I give it a year. Elladan and Elrohir have waited too long to meet the Ambarussa to settle for anything less."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot be the only one who burns for some Elladan/Elrohir/Amrod/Amras? Though, please consider Elladan/Elrohir and Amras/Amrod as established. It's just ... *jedi handwave* ... the natural way of life in a fictional slash universe.


	3. Of Bliss and Glad Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a little amount of angst to be found in this chapter, but considering the characters it could definitely be worse.

Since the dawn of time, it's pretty useless to hold any kind of family gathering inside. There's never enough space, even with the huge wooden table in the enormous kitchen. While most families have a separate room for preparing food, it's a matter of practicality for the House of Fëanor. The distance from the stove to the wherever dinner is held has to be incredibly short or else the food will get eaten on the way to the table. So it's not much of a surprise that dinner is taken outside as long as the weather allows it.

The assorted mismatched chairs and plates are further proof that style and aesthetics are overrated. It started with a broken chair and with the replacement no one even bothered to make it look like the others. Well, it's not as if is anyone notices the form and the colour of a chair, when everyone is sitting on it. As far as his memory serves, his family's only requirement on furniture is that's not allowed to crumble to dust when Maedhros sits down on it.

Curufin has to bite back a laugh when he recalls the moment when his brother crashed onto the floor, because the flimsy garden chair with delicate legs and bast network as cushion was just not designed for newly returned war generals in their newfound prime of health. Though the most hilarious image was how Maedhros fell, crashed and got bump on his head without spilling a single drop of his soup in the cup he had been holding in his left hand. As funny as the sight had been, something twisted in his stomach at the memory. Had been luck, incredible reflexes or the instinct not to waste food?

It's ridiculous. Curufin knows that his brother is fine now and that Maedhros wouldn't have wanted for him to be a part of the War of Wrath, yet he feels guilty for not being there.

"Father? Do you have a moment?" Celebrimbor steps out of the kitchen, holding a stack of papers. He's wearing work clothes, pants that are dirty beyond salvation and he has tied his hair back in order to get it out of his face.

It's not the image of a noble prince, of a member of the Royal House of Finwë, but Curufin bursts into a wide smile regardless.

The sight of his son completely at ease with himself and buried in new, endless projects holding his interests never fails to make him happy. His soul has still scars and he wakes up from nightmares, but with Celebrimbor overcoming his own death and the circumstances that lead to it, he can brace whatever is waiting for him. Though he desperately wishes he had something _to do._ His greatest enemy is how much time he has on his hands. There are no urgent projects to finish, no borders to defend or inventions to discover. For once in a long while no one is relying on him and while it's good that he can not disappoint anyone by failing to keep them safe, he feels utterly useless at the same time.

"I have all the moments for you, my son," Curufin responds. After returning from Mandos, his own father was the first thing he saw.

Without Fëanor at the other side, he might not have had the courage to start a new life. Not after living so many decades in fear in Beleriand and seeing most of them come true. One valuable lesson they have all learned is to tell each other that they are still loved. In the first days of getting back on his feet Fëanor said the words each day. Phrased differently each time, but after a while Curufin got the message.

When he asked him, his father confessed, _It was one of my biggest fears that you might think I hate you. It would have destroyed me, had just one of you thought I'm capable of that. Now I want to make sure that you know your presence is welcome and appreciated._

Curufin is aware that his father isn't perfect. Not back then and certainly not now either. They live far off from Tirion for a reason.

But their new home is peaceful and that alone is reason enough to model his behaviour once again after his father's. So far it worked, because he _had_ reconnected with Telpe.

His son's movements are stiff and Curufin watches him anxiously. Celebrimbor gets like this when he can't quite put the memory of his death out of mind. Lord Námo does his best, but a few experiences change you, change your opinions and your convictions. Especially when you are done reflecting upon them. They all have those days. Then they move and act like as if Morgoth Shadow is still upon them and they all deal it with it differently, but today it seems that Celebrimbor has an actual reason for the shadows in his beautiful eyes.

When his son sits down next to him, Curufin first only notices how his chest swells with joy, because Telpe doesn't see the need to put the table between them.

The ring in Celebrimbor's palm comes to his attention after he's done getting his own emotions back under control.

Wordless Curufin picks it up for inspection. It's old, worn and weathered a lot of years, but there's a quality to it that allows the ring to remain mostly unblemished. Since it has dulled, the colours have faded and the edges have softened it takes Curufin a moment to recognize it. After so many years, after so many experiments where he focused on how to destroy their enemies, one unremarkable ring takes a while to jog his memory.

He squints at his, mumbling, "I think I made this thing, but it must have been ages ago."

Celebrimbor nods. "For Findárato."

He looks away and only then the truth hits.

"Damned," Curufin curses, realizes how long it's truly been since he held this ring in his hand. "I actually forgot that this was mine once."

He wouldn't call it beautiful, not like it once has been, but no one can deny that this object is famous. Though it's mostly known as _Ring of Barahir_ by now. He hold it into the light and his own lack of bitterness is a pleasant surprise. Thanks to the many hands it went over the last Four Ages of the World it's just an object now. A relict of history worth to be studied, but nothing to lose his temper over.

Yet Curufin still remembers the betrayal he felt, when Beren turned up in Nargothrond with this ring as proof to the story he told.

In hindsight Curufin would like to say that he sensed the ruin his work would bring, long before Beren got to the point of invoking Finrod's own oath, but he has matured enough to admit that it was more pain, shame and hurt to see a personal gift in the hands of mortal man. Whom Finrod had chosen, just like Barahir before him.

His own intentions, fleeting and innocent as they had been once, lost their meaning in the face of that. Of course, he gifted the ring to Finrod and his cousin had been free to do with it as he wished. Yet, to have old and dead love thrown into his face like that hadn't helped the issue at whole.

Today Curufin wants to laugh at himself. Instead he concentrates on why this old piece of metal bothers his son so much.

"It has been passed down the lines of Kings in Middle Earth. After the Ring War ended and Sauron was destroyed, King Elessar ordered a replica while there will still Elves with the skill around to fulfill his wish," Celebrimbor explains. He tries to keep his voice even, but it's apparent how he can barely look at the thing. "The Sons of Elrond brought the original with them."

"Did they say why?" Curufin wants to know. There are a lot of questions surrounding the appearance of this ring and this is hopefully easy to answer.

"As reminder. As lesson regarding our own mortality." Celebrimbor sounds tired. As if he has spent too many hours looking at this ring already, brooding and despairing over it instead of catching sleep he desperately needs. "They discovered the inscriptions as the replica was made and believed we might want it back. They couldn't know that I was the one who gifted it to Elros."

The hollow laugh barely sounds like his son and as much as it hurts to see him like this, Curufin lets Celebrimbor talk.

The younger Fëanorian leans into his father's side, needing the reminder that he isn't alone.

"Beren had the audacity to send it to Nargothrond after he settled in Tol Galen with his wife. Neither Orodreth nor I could look at it, but I couldn't bring myself to throw it away either." Celebrimbor's voice turns into a mournful whisper. "It was the only connection I had to you back then. Stars, how foolish I had been. I regretted keeping it by the time I looked at it next. It became a reminder of all those letters I never send, of my own cowardice that I let morality force us apart."

"I am sorry, Telperiquar. I am sorry that you suffered because of me."

Curufin rarely apologizes. None of them do. It's a lesson that Lord Námo hammered into their heads. History was done and they were only allowed to feel regret if they would do everything differently, given the chance. In the Halls of Mandos the acts of violence against yourself counted more than an simple act of killing. For people died all the time. From all kind of things. Destroying yourself, though ... that's the greater tragedy.

It's sad that Curufin realizes how much Celebrimbor resembles him in this.

They are both self-destructive.

It's painful to watch the hateful, ugly feeling he struggled with be born in Telperinquar's chest.

These days Curufin feels better. Healed and quite another person from the wounded animal he had been in Beleriand. Sometimes he struggles to understand how they were ever the same person, but Lord Námo said pain changes people. Just like fear. He didn't understand why Lord Námo thought him worthy of being made whole again, of reaching a pained where he can consider himself a stronger, better person.

Yet the way Celebrimbor's searching eyes find his, Curufin thinks that Lord Námo must have had a reason indeed. If it's just to pull his child back on his feet after he had stumbled. If he can Telpe's life better, than Curufin doesn't mind making sure that his return has to be worth it for the rest of the world as well.

He can live and breath for Telperinquar alone, if it comes down to it.

Even if he had to give up anything else. Old connections like rings he once forged for a cousin he loved, making Celebrimbor smile would be worth it. Always.

"What do we do with it?" Celebrimbor asks. It's not the voice of a curious little boy. But it's not the rasp of a tortured soul either.

Instead Telpe sounds as done with this topic as Curufin feels. Neither of them wants to discuss Nargothrond. They don't have to. Mandos made sure of that. Now they know that they would chose each other, should there ever be a second time.

It's enough for Curufin. With a truth like this in his heart, he sleeps dreamless at night. It banishes the nightmares that still linger is his heart.

"We can send it to Findárato. It is his after all." Curufin shrugs and eyes the Ring of Barahir like a cook that discovered rotten eggs in the pantry.

This new world held a lot of uncertainties, but one truth Curufin was sure of. This piece of metal was no longer one of his creations. Hadn't been in a long time. He would claim King Elessar as the true owner, but Elrond's third son is long dead by now. So, Finrod it is. Next best choice, but Curufin would throw it into the trash as long as it wiped that damned expression of Telperinquar's face.

Celebrimbor agrees as he lets himself fall against his father's frame. As an arm sneaks around his shoulders, he mumbles, "I do not care what he does with it as long as I don't have to see it again."

"Okay," Curufin promises and puts the relict away.

A few moments later it is already gone from his mind, since he far more focused on Celebrimbor then what a single object that once meant a great deal to him.

Yet the truth is that the ring never makes it into Finrod's hands. It wanders from Curufin's tunic into his study and from there to a shelf, where he keeps the useless trinkets. Stuff he once created and hasn't gotten around melting down again. Sometimes he still thinks about it, wonders if it might mean anything to his cousin if he got it back. Yet between the rumours that Finrod still carries bite marks from the wolf on his skin and the fact that sending a letter would initiate a contact Curufin can live without, he decides that Barahir and Beren are finally done causing trouble for his family.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, they are working on it. Should retag this story as "Feanorians being not unhappy", but when it comes to Curufin and Telpe, I take whatever I can get.


	4. One Fëanorian Survivor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Space: Alternative Universe - One Fëanorian of your Choice lives. Since I did this exact thing in "Lonesome Rider" (*cringes because last chapter is still not finished), I simply counted Erestor as honorary Fëanorian and brought out some feels™.

"Should I ask if you are alright?" Fëanor opened the conversation one early evening when he managed to catch some time alone with Erestor. In the last weeks the other Elf had stalked around like a trapped animal. Or a warrior, who had nothing left to do. Nothing to defend and nothing to prepare for.

His children and his grandchildren had provided distractions, but Fëanor saw how the frown never left Erestor's face, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

It hurt Fëanor to see his friend on the edge like this, stressed out and barely sleeping, but he has learned to be patient. Watching his children and his people suffer once was enough. He would not rush their healing and make their recovery worse in the long run, just because he failed to give them the time or the space they needed. With his children, it had been easier. With them, he had learned to let them have their own life long before Melkor was released from Mandos. It was no struggle to do so again, especially since when he saw how support their received from friends and family members around them.

Erestor on the other hand he had not seen or spoken in thousands of years.

"You know the answer to that question," Erestor responds without looking up. He keeps his eyes on the mug in his hand, washing it before placing it carefully on a towel to dry.

"Do I?" Fëanor wants to know. Since he doesn't know what to do with his arms, he crosses them over his chest and leans against the counter. Erestor doesn't seem to mind being in his focus, but he doesn't meet his eyes either. "I do not want to assume and reclaim a place at your side. It's been a long time and you went through a lot because of me."

The sound Erestor makes is a mixture of a snort and a muffled sob. It is the suppression of pain and for Fëanor it ranks right up there with Maedhros talking about the War of Wrath in a hushed voice or Curufin's nightmares about Celebrimbor leaving him again.

He reaches out and grasps Erestor's wrist. It is wet from the lukewarm water, yet is does not hide the roughness of his skin, the calluses on his fingers or the fading scars. Marks he got from a lifetime of fighting, using the sword instead of creating them in the forge. Fëanor wonders if Erestor even remembers that they once bended over his work bench together, going over forms and materials when blades were just things they experimented on.

"I watched you _die,_ " Erestor chokes out, but he doesn't pull his hand away though he looks like is about to fall apart.

Fëanor hates that he had this conversation seven times already.

Yet once again ... this different. This is Erestor, who has a far different perspective on the matter than his sons. Those were family, they loved him, because he was their father and until today Fëanor does not know if he is worthy of that love.

Erestor though ... Erestor was ... _is ..._ is friend by choice and over the time there were very few who made the distinction.

"It was not my intent to cause you pain," Fëanor says carefully. Then he adds a thought he never voiced out loud before, "I did not intend to die. I did not go out seeking my death."

Erestor sobs again, but he furiously blinks away the mist in his eyes.

"I know that. I have always known that. I _never ..."_ Erestor takes a deep breath and his fingers dig into Fëanor's skin until they can feel each other's pulse. A little bit more calm then before, he adds, "I never doubted you or the course you chose. I believed in you and in your work, long after it proved to be unwise to profess such loyalty outside the privacy of your own head."

"I wish it had not been necessary, but please never forget that I am deeply grateful for what you did." It feels wrong to choose his words around Erestor so carefully, but Fëanor made the attempt of being as blunt and honest as he could be. Their relationship thrived on confessing each others fears. Perhaps it had been simply the side effect of spending so much time together in their youth, but during his entire life Fëanor had never know how to untangle himself from Erestor.

His friend had always been there and the years here in Aman without him, had been difficult to live through. Especially during the times, when he was in a dire need of a friend.

Erestor, true to his character, only shrugs when he hears Fëanor's words.

"There was no question what I had to do. The moment I realized what your death meant, that you would be gone and that your sons would grieve until their pain turned them into something unrecognisable, I tried to fill to role you left behind." The kitchen is filled by the sound of their matched breathing. Erestor's voice grows quiet. "I admit it got easier after the First Age. Everything, in fact, because I no longer had to fight to keep your memory alive, since there was no one around to spread lies about it anymore. Instead I _became_ you. Not in terms of skill, of course. I will never possess your creativity, but I knew how to keep a conversation running. How to feed the flames in the hearts of the young and steer their minds towards curiosity the very least. The world needed a sharp mind and I could not leave the task to Elrond, when it was the deepest with of his heart to heal what he had lost."

Fëanor's heart clenches, but he figures he will have to get used to the fact. He was not there for the war against Morgoth, or later against Sauron. Yet he still wants to be a part of it, it is only fair and just that he will carry the pain as his family did.

"You have gone above and beyond what I asked of you. I hope it will not be difficult to reconnect, because it feels like I already lost you once and I don't want to experience that ever again." Carefully Fëanor says, turning his gaze away, "It was hard, living here in Aman without you."

Putting away the dishes, Erestor raises an eyebrow and questions his old friend, "Do you mean me or do you mean your family?"

Four Ages ago this would have been a reason to joke and to laugh. It was no secret that Erestor performed as Fëanor's shadow - to an extend that people forgot he existed outside of the Crown Prince's magnetic pull. Critical family members claimed Erestor simply did not differently, yet with more time spent apart than together Erestor knows the truth.

"I missed you," he says, whispering the words. So long he had to hide the fact that he had known Fëanor. Only a few people guessed his age and his origin, outside of the loyal circles around Celebrimbor who knew the truth and never breathed a word about it.

He reaches out, but then lets his hands fall to his side again. In a way he is still so interwoven with Fëanor, or at least the image he had of him, that he doesn't now how to touch him anymore. For Erestor cannot say how it used to be. Did they hug often? Did they existed quietly side by side? With so many memories in his head, Erestor guessed a long time ago some details had to give and be lost in regards of more pressing concerns.

Thankfully Fëanor knows nothing of such hesitation. He pulls Erestor away from his task, out of the kitchen into the garden where they settle down on a bench. They end up with their legs tangled, Fëanor's thrown over Erestor's as if he wants to pin him down keep him from running away. It takes a while, but the touch helps Erestor to calm down. The frantic and lost expression on his face helps a little. Only when Fëanor digs his fingers into his hair to press their foreheads together, it vanishes entirely.

By the time Erestor has his heartbeat back under control, he feels a tension bleed away he held onto since the time he held a dying Curufin in his arms, calling for his son and apologizing to his father with his last breath.

"I missed you as well." He says it out loud, because the words burn on his tongue. He wouldn't have to say it, obviously Fëanor is still good at figuring out how Erestor feels without using actual words.

But after all this time it is safer. He can't leave this for chance, not when he sailed with the knowledge that he might go back to the land of his birth without getting his best friend back. Erestor prepared to walk down the streets of Tirion and seeing Fëanor's ghost at every corner. Like so many times before he steeled himself to go to war, this time against the Valar.

Never ... never he dreamed of finding his family alive and together at the shores of Aman to welcome him upon his return.

Not knowing to deal with the surge of emotions, he curls against Fëanor's chest. Unafraid and seeking comfort he denied himself for far too long. It would not surprise him to wake up from this perfect dream and find himself back in Rivendell, alone and miserable.

"We will figure it out together." After a short pause Fëanor adds, "I want to figure it out together."

For he trusted Erestor like he did with no one else. His children come close, but as a parent there are some burdens he does not want to place on them. Not again, after he made the mistake once already. The Oath is a something he cannot entirely regret, it got the Noldor to Beleriand, but he can feel remorse how it turned out. Though perhaps it is the greatest possible punishment the Valar could have thought of, forcing his children to live through the consequences of his actions and leave him to watch in helplessness.

They sit together in silence, enjoying the presence of the other and content themselves of being back within arms reach. The afternoon turns into early evening, the setting sun paints the garden into a beautiful shade of red and the air grows cold as Erestor breaks the silence.

"Do you hate me for getting to see and travel the world? You died weeks after setting foot on the land we swore to explore together."

Fëanor shakes his head in bafflement. Of all things Erestor could worry about, it is the possibility of disappointing him. Not the blood on his hands, the ugly names he has been rightfully called throughout history or the bad choices he had been forced to make - nothing of those put the fear into Erestor's heart that Fëanor could turn him away. Which he won't, regardless of which state Erestor's moral compass is in or crimes he committed in the past.

Finally he says, "I will see it through your eyes once you tell me everything and if that is the price for knowing Morgoth safely locked away behind the Doors of the Night than I can live with that."

Erestor shuffles until his chin rests on Fëanor's shoulder.

"Is that a statement of a belief that already exists or is a the formulation of thesis?"

"It's a work in progress." Fëanor scowls, unused the fact of being read so easily.

His children are good at it, but he is seldom their only focus of their attention and Nerdanel is not around often enough in order to notice.

Erestor's lips twitch and in retaliation, Fëanor throws out the question: "Have you spoken to your father already?"

Now Erestor's expression grows dark. He looks like as if he had not thought of his father since he followed Fëanor into exile. Which, knowing Erestor, is probably true.

"Have you?" Erestor growls and glares at his best friend.

"I have spoken to _my_ father, yes. Though I don't see him very often these days, he's busy guarding the Doors of the Night."

Erestor's eyebrows travel up to his hairline as he hears the words. He looks at Fëanor with astonishment, but the Son of Finwë refuses to comment on that particular news. It had been a surprise to all of them, when Finwë left the Halls near the end of the First Age and volunteered for guard duty. According to his words, he feels as if he failed his children, his house and his people as King, Father and role model.

 _'You all fought him. You all had a hand in bringing him down. All except me, who did not even manage to draw his sword. Morgoth murdered me and I let it happen as a helpless victim I was.'_ Finwë had said, when he said his goodbyes. _'But no more. I will stand before the Doors of the Night, keeping him away from all of you. It's a good motivation, knowing that I will be responsible for bringing you pain all over again if I fail to keep him out.'_

After his speech Finwë had left and Fëanor hadn't stopped him. Neither had Fingolfin, for the matter and it kept him awake at night, because he didn't know what it meant. Fact is Finwë is gone, though he is alive and close enough to be visited. It might take weeks of travel, but it was possible.

Fëanor had been there only once. He had gone with Elrond, introducing him to his forefather.

Difficult to say if he will ever go back. There is no need, he worked through his issues with his father's parenting with Lord Námo at his side.

 _'I have learned from my mistakes_ . _I will not interfere again, when it comes to Kings and Crown,'_ the Vala had said. _'Morgoth's actions taught me that I have greater things to worry about.'_

Like the pain Fëanor experienced when Finwë remarried and he felt cast aside.

It is still not easy, but the new size and shape of Aman helps. There are other tasks to focus on. He _has_ come to terms with the new world.

Yet when he looks at Erestor, it's apparent that his friend is still struggling. Pain and conflicting emotions flicker of his face and it's certainly not because of Finwë's face.

"We don't have to visit him _now._ There's a time and a place for that, but I think you should go back at least once," Fëanor suggests. "I haven't seen him either, for the record. There's no chance he would have opened the doors for me as long as he could accuse me of having stolen you away from him."

"That's not what he said the last time _I_ saw him."

Fëanor's face goes soft and is glad that Erestor isn't looking at him right now.

Neither of them parted with Rúmil on good terms and they loved him both to a great deal. Of course they did, Rúmil of Tirion was Fëanor's very first teacher and shaped is life as much as Finwë did though more to a more positive degree if Fëanor counts the effect of Indis coming into his life as well. Perhaps it's was makes facing the prospect of meeting him again so difficult.

No one but Erestor knows how much of Rúmil's early ideas they took and used them for ill. In the end, Fëanor created swords and weapons while Erestor ended up using them, but it's impossible to shake of the feeling of disappointment. And no matter what Erestor Rúmilion might say, as a father himself Fëanor has a good idea how Rúmil might feel about seeing his son again despite the fact that they parted in anger.

"He will agree to meet you, trust me on this. Even if neither of you ever speaks to the other ever again, it would do you good." Fëanor never tried to interfere in Erestor's relationship with his father. Yet it had been difficult not to get involved, since he had been the reason of their many fights in the first place. Or rather, he had been the catalyst while the true reason laid in ideological differences they couldn't set aside.

Fëanor sighs and notices that Erestor answers by not saying anything at all.

Like always, his friend is a wonderful mirror for stubborn behaviour. And a good example what kind of relationship he never wanted with any of his sons. The feud of silence was always motivation to make up with his sons and find a compromise every side could live with in the rare cases they had serious quarrel.

Thankfully Fëanor had some time to think this over.

"You could always send him a letter in a language he doesn't understand and sign it with your name," he says and though Erestor doesn't answer, he can see the wry grin and the determination in his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The guard in front of the Doors of the Night is a fact. I always wondered who it could be. Here I picked Finwë, namely because of the mentioned reasons.  
> 2\. Erestor as Son of Rúmil aka the guy whose letters Fëanor reinvented. One of the best backstories I have come up with so far, because it fits Erestor's personality and the timeline how the boys could have met when they were young.  
> 3\. Missed the prompt a bit, because it focuses on Erestor _being_ a survivor and not the fact that he survived where he should have died.


	5. Healing and Herblore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Fun Bingo_ will officially renamed into _Emotional Hurt/Comfort_ Event.

Erestor flinched when Maglor's thundering voice vibrated through the entire house. He forgot how awful the brothers could be, when they were headbutting. Maglor in particular, though Erestor admits that he doesn't know how to interact with him. Their last personal conversation dated back to the First Age, when Maglor had ordered him to accompany Elrond and Elros. After that they met only briefly, single days scattered through history when their path crossed based on dire need or sheer coincidence. On both sides they kept their shared past a secret, their relationship impersonal.

It's impossible to make out the words that Maedhros throws at Maglor's head in response, but given the way Caranthir raises his eyebrows next to him, it cannot have been anything encouraging.

"Is that...," Erestor looks for the right words, "...normal for them?"

Of course he had been prepared to find his family changed. There's always a difference between going through change with someone right from the start or joining later when the foundations have already put into the ground.

Not that he could have  _known_ that the Valar released the brothers far earlier than he imagined, but a part of Erestor feels like a fool for hesitating. He knew the children he raised alongside Fëanor. He plucked them from trees, treated their scratches and dried their tears. Learned about their interested and encouraged them on every step of their journey. Yet, as relieved he is to have them back, he does not know how to act around them. 

Caranthir shrugs. "Leave it to Nelyo. He will handle Makalaurë, I don't know either what their issue is. They have been arguing about this topic ever since they reunited."

"Are they only fighting with each other?" Erestor tries to remember how it used to be when the boys were younger. So much is overshadowed by the major events of history, all the catastrophes that he has difficulties to describe the actual relationships between the brothers.

"If you ask me, they are both upset about parting ways in the first place." Caranthir has the audacity to laugh and does not seem very worried when voices raise again, only this time it's Maglor screaming obscenities in the Black Speech. Over Maedhros' own cursing, he says, "I believe the main discussion last year was about how Nelyo wouldn't have jumped into the fire, had he known that it would take Cáno so long to follow him."

With this Caranthir leaves Erestor behind, befuddled and confused. Also, probably delighted at getting to watch how he will navigate through the daily sibling drama.

Years of practice made an expert out of him how to avoid unnecessary fights, yet through the recent changes hasn't found a justified distraction yet. There is little to do, though Erestor has finally noticed how the brother's keep the visitors away from him. The part that has worked tirelessly in the last three ages wishes to protest, but another voice tells him that the boys are save here. There's no need to run after them when he doesn't even know the layout of his new home.

It's huge, yet not as labyrinthine as Formenos as used to be.

Instead there's the house where Fëanor works, sleeps and lives while his children have build smaller ones for themselves to retreat to. As far as Erestor is able to tell, the brothers often sleep here anyway, but as this afternoon with Maedhros and Maglor has proven it's a good idea to let them escape whenever they want.

Since worry still runs through his veins, years of loneliness and the sudden miracle of having them all back at once, causes him to seek out his old friend. Thankfully, though the fact is hardly a coincidence, the balcony of his rooms is connect to Fëanor's. Instead of knocking and barging in like he would have done it in a different life, Erestor sits down on one of the two chairs and waits. It takes more effort than he thought it would, for his famous never ending patience has melted like frost in the morning sun. Anxiety makes his fingers find a rhythm on the armrest and while the sight of setting sun at the horizon is indescribable beautiful, Erestor has no eye for it today.

If he spared no attention to the detail, then he had no time to consider the differences between Aman and Middle Earth. Sometimes the sheer sight of his new home made him weep. With grief and sorrow, to have lost the home he fought for with rivers of blood. For having abandoned it, leaving kin, friends and allies on the other side of the ocean.

For a better life.

There's no denying it, the very air he inhales is clearer and fresher than Eriador's has been in thousands of years. Yet it almost hurts to breath. With every exhale he lets go of a piece that belongs to his old life. Pain, doom and the will to survive have sunken so deep into his bones that Erestor never imagined it could ever go away again. In Middle Earth he felt the weight on occasion, the burns of wearing a cloth that belongs to someone else.

In Beleriand, in Eregion and in Imladris he tried to  _be_ Fëanor since the world needed his spirit, even if it was just a faint echo from the memories of an old friend. 

"It takes a while to get used to."

Erestor is startled out his trance. Yet he only looks up in confusion and bewilderment, instead of jumping to his feet. It's a side effect, he guesses. The knowledge of being  _safe_ is just as strange as the sensation of not having to expect a threat or an attack at every corner. 

Hence why his feet are still laying on the handrail. He hasn't moved an inch, his heart isn't thundering in his chest and yet Erestor remembers how old reflexes would have killed Elrond for the act he just pulled, had this happened at any point in Imladris. Back then Maglor's son had the sense to knock and to announce himself.

"What do you mean?" Erestor wants to know and tells himself that this isn't Imladris. He has no right to be angry at the intrusion of privacy. He has disturbed Elrond's well deserved rest countless times in the past and being caught unawares does not collude with the fact that he has been actively avoiding him. "Aside this being a strange starter for our first conversation in centuries, please tell me the rest of the statement."

With a sigh, Elrond leans against the door frame leading to Fëanor's rooms.

Erestor has no time to be puzzled with what Elrond was doing in them.

"You looked lost. I have seen the expression on the face of many patients in the past, when they could not believe that the battle was over and that they survived it with scrapes and bruises, though they fully expected to die." Elrond pauses for a moment and his expression grows soft as he adds, "You had the same expression on your face. Since the day I met you to the moment I stepped on the ship that took me here, you always looked like the thousands of patients I healed through the many years."

A laugh escapes Erestor. "I have rarely been subjected to your healing. I was always careful or lucky enough to escape severe injuries."

"You are a master of logistics, of language and strategic intervention and while you prefer to remain behind you rode out often enough." Elrond's eyes narrow on Erestor's chest. "Even if that was just to hide the scars you  _do_ have on your body." 

Erestor flinches and his hand moves to his ribcage. The scar that travels across the front half of his torso, has faded but the skin never smoothed out again. It's no longer the shade of angry red, hasn't been for a long time. Yet with his recent reveal of his origin Elrond must have finally come to sate the curiosity he always hide behind his profession.

"I always allowed you to work on the scar. Wherever it was out of your desire to practice your skills or because another injury interacted with it," Erestor recollects. There had been many moments of solace, just him and Elrond. Both focusing on getting better, neither willing to give up and be satisfied with second rate treatment. Physical pain had never been Erestor's choice for self-punishment, he didn't handle it very well.

He wasn't Maedhros, who through sheer spite until his body finally couldn't handle the strain anymore. He wasn't Maglor, who always found a way to duck at the very last moment. In fact, he was more like Curufin. Not that Erestor had seen him much ever since they travelled here, but in his last life Curufin's mood could be affected by a simple bruise. There's not much resistance in them and therefore they learned how to pick their battles carefully.

Elrond, in his great wisdom and generosity, never berated Erestor for not wanting to fight.

"You also never told me it's origin. When we met, you acted as long standing military leader in Maedhros' army," Elrond says and makes a point by uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. "I assumed you received it in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but you never mentioned which Son of Fëanor you served. I found it odd, but the pain in your eyes always kept me from asking."

Erestor traced the scar through his clothing.

It's the only physical evidence he had of Fëanor's for a very long time. As much as he hated himself for his weakness, for surviving when his friend died, the scar was evidence that he battled a Balrog. That he had not quivered in fear and run. That he had  _tried_ though it had done little in the end. 

What did it say about him that he stuck to reasonable goals from there on? Never reached for the impossible again? Despite his best efforts to channel his best friend's fire and his beliefs, he never managed to replace him the way the brothers needed him to.

After the House of Fëanor fell and the Gods retreated into the West again, he tried being just Erestor. Never worked either.

Erestor  _ached_ and after Elrond sailed he had been too detached and numb to notice. 

He turns to Elrond again. "Why are you here?"

_Here_ meaning on this balcony, exactly when I needed you.  _Here_ with Fëanor, who was nothing but a history figure for you.  _Here_ with the kin you are barely related to. Here with  _me_ , when you sailed and I refused to do the same without offering you an explanation. 

Perhaps time and distance enable him finally to view Elrond as the Elf he always was, yet Erestor was too close to see.

"I am here, because I care." It's the only statement Elrond offers and after feeling as if he walked through a dream in the last weeks, this is the first truth Erestor allows himself to believe.

He blinks and realizes how much Elrond resembles his father. He is wearing his hair open without pulling a few strands back like he used to. It makes him look less stern, his eyes more grey somehow and his gaze bears so much of Maglor and Maedhros that Erestor would never question it if he were presented with solid facts of true blood relation.

_With red hair he would be the spitting image of Nelyafinwë,_ Erestor thinks and wonders why he has never seen it before. 

Is his own memory clouded? Did his pain hide the truth from him? He watched Elrond grow up under Maglor's care. Saw how two frightened children clung a desperate soul, which had only his love for his family left to give.

_Or I just never wanted to see it. How could I declare Elrond as grandson of the greatest Elf ever lived, if they never met?_

The situation being the way it was had resolved the matter in it's own way. Fëanor returned from beyond the world and embraced Elrond, who had a lot of kin but no true family.

In that moment, with that odd thought running through his head, Erestor decides he wants to see how this relationship came to be. He wants to see it at work, for there's a confidence in Elrond he has never seen before.

"Please forgive me. I have not greeted you like the friend and relative you have been for Three Ages. I treated you like a stranger," Erestor finally says. The sigh that leaves his mouth feels like a confession. They did not part in anger, yet they did not speak heartfelt words of farewell and friendship either, when Elrond sailed.

The twins argued that neither of them were in the right mind for it and that the nature of the separation ensured that they would meet again one day to make up for lost time, but Erestor didn't want to believe them.

Thankfully Elrond is much like his father and possesses not a single petty bone in his body.

"I felt much the same, when I arrived in these lands. Do not believe for a moment that I was well. It is simply an effect Aman has on your soul, something I have encountered as healer as well." Elrond smiles, encouraging and ensuring that his former senechall understands. It's heartbreaking and infuriating at the same time how at ease the Half-Elf appears. "Most warriors are possess an amazing self-control. They push through horrifying battles, long journeys and the loss of friends without losing their composure. Only when they feel safe again, their shields shatter and they fall apart. You are not an exception, though you have fought far different battles than Glorfindel, whom I treated very often regarding that matter."

"I understand," Erestor murmurs and pushes the thoughts of Glorfindel and all the other former friends made in need away.

"No, you don't. Not yet, but you will," Elrond says and pushes himself upright again. "Rest, Erestor. We will figure out what we will be in the future, but for once we are not running out of time. After coming to Aman it took me centuries to pull myself together and please do not feel ashamed if you require just as many years. You are in good hands just as I was."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

The conversation lifts a weight of his soul he didn't know he was carrying. But the passage of time in two entirely different realms affects even the strongest friendships. Erestor allowed doubt to take a hold of his mind, but he figures it had been inevitable. If wind, rain and time can wear down Tirion upon Túna, even promises and devotion can falter.

As Elrond turns to leave, intending to no longer disturb Erestor, the older Elf stops the Peredhel.

"Elrond, I have one last question and while it does not concern me directly, I would like to know how to behave in the future. Do you know why Cánafinwë and Nelyafinwë were fighting today?"

In truth, Erestor doesn't  _want_ to know. A lot has passed between Maedhros and Maglor and on many issues he hasn't been privy to. But the argument earlier today reminded him too much of the years between the Second and the Third Kinslaying. Those were one of the worst days he ever had to live through. Not even the War of Wrath can compare to the toxic relationship the two brother's had back then. 

From the expression in Elrond's face, they are both keenly aware of the ground shaking argument that sounded through the house today. All of the brothers used to keep their arguments away from the rest of the family, the two oldest specially. Erestor wonders what happened that they went against that deeply integrated habit.

"I have good idea, but I will advise you to stay out of it. It is their typical state of being painful honest with each other," Elrond only says, instead of explaining what is really going on.

Elrond leaves without saying another word. Despite his last shrug being a copy of Fëanor's tendency not to interfere with his children's squabbles as long as they are not burning down the house, Erestor is familiar with the tension between his shoulder blades. As he studies the former Lord of Imladris' retreating back, he comprehends how different this Elrond is to the Elf he used to know.

He watched Elrond grow from childhood. With Elros, in the beginning. Maglor came to him sometimes, when he recognized he was over his head with two small Peredhil or when he was too distracted or beaten to take care of them himself.

_They had been so tiny back then,_ Erestor thinks and tries not to touch the wave of regret that comes over him. Not that there had been a good solution for their situation after Doriath fell. With Thingol's death Beleriand shattered and no matter what they would have done, the War of Wrath would have come over them sooner or later. 

_Maglor probably believes that he did a better job at raising the boys than Elwing could have._

Perhaps the Bard isn't wrong in believing so, yet Erestor wonders what part of Elrond had been broken that it took the entire House of Fëanor to heal him. Yet, as much as the question burns in his mind, it's not enough to run after him.

  
-

  
  


Fëanor waits until Elrond has stormed down the hall. It's wrong, eavesdropping like a coward, but in this case he had been stuck waiting for the right moment. Erestor is his oldest friend and Elrond his grandson, yet both he does not know very well. It had been a risk, leaving them alone with each other in a vulnerable moment, when their spirits were restless due to recent changes and challenges they lived through.

_It went better than I thought it would,_ Fëanor muses and decides against following his young grandson, for he is heading in the direction where he senses Maedhros' blazing fëa as well. 

Comforted that Elrond will have someone to go, if it is his wish, Fëanor crosses his rooms in order to join Erestor. Of course he could wait and make it look more like a coincidence, but there is no use in hiding. He has not raised seven wild boys into remarkable and magnificent adults without delegating and directing on a few occasions. Erestor was there for most of it. He helped him create a lot of the manoeuvrers that got Tyelko and Moryo through puberty.

He will appreciate Fëanor's efforts soon enough.

When he steps onto the balcony, he's carrying an old mix of herbs, boiled into a tea that only Rúmil and Erestor only truly enjoyed. Fëanor suffered through it during his time as the scholar's apprentice and learned to like beverage out of sheer self-defence. He hopes he got the taste right, for Aman had changed a lot since Fëanor last walked its ground.

"Where you trying to help Elrond or myself?" Erestor asks as he takes the steaming cup out of Fëanor's hands.

"Elrond, for the most part. He still struggles with finding himself. All his life he served the people under his protection that he does not know what to do with himself when they are no longer knocking at his door, demanding his undivided attention," Fëanor explains.

The sun has set and the night is getting cold, but the tea is enough to warm his hands.

Erestor does not notice the drop in the temperature at all. Instead he only nods, agreeing with Fëanor's assessment. It feels a bit like the times, when they talked about the various students and pupils under their care. They always found topics to discuss. Problems with projects, material that had to be collected, opinions on if a new idea would succeed or fail ... they did it with everyone, keeping an eye on the small army that was the House of Fëanor, which consisted of a lot of more people than just those related to the Son of Míriel. There were said pupils, former pupils turned master craftsmen, their partners, their children, servants within the house and  _their_ families ... 

Yet ... without saying a single word about it, either of them  _know_ that Elrond is more than friend and a student. 

All his life Erestor told himself he just couldn't  _assume_ Fëanor would approve of the adoption, though he'd have very little choice in accepting the addition to the family. Maglor's love is possessive and eternal and it says a lot that not even Maedhros could deter his little brother, six thousand years ago upon that burning cliff while the river Sirion cried blood into the ocean. 

"Logical after the life he had so far," Erestor muses and takes a sip. When he has drowned half the cup, he narrows his eyes and his sharp gaze focuses on Fëanor. "Will  _you_ tell me why Maedhros and Maglor were fighting today? Unlike the rest of you, I still associate that kind of tone with the darkest moments from the First Age. I would like a warning next time, for I'm unwilling to be confronted with long buried images again." 

"Noted." Fëanor nods. It's surprisingly easy to let Erestor back into his life. He feared it would be more difficult, especially after running a household and a loose form of government without the aid of his friend. Yet, despite his reputation and his stubbornness, he had never a problem with treating Erestor as his equal. "But I fear there is little to tell. Cánafinwë and Nelyafinwë will keep fighting in the foreseeable future until they have resolved their issues. For my part I'm glad that they are no longer pretending that everything is fine. With their screaming matches they finally look each other in the eyes at least."

"I have only arrived very recently, but as far as I was able to tell they were fine a few weeks ago?"

Erestor curses himself for falling into the Fëanorian's well-meaning scheming. He had wonderful weeks of rest, yet he never had so little information at hand as right now. A tactic that serves for the new arrivals to acclimate and find the rest they need for sure and while Erestor is grateful for the break, he hates being left in the dark.

With a pointed glare he tries to get his point across that Fëanor better breaks whatever protocol they have in place. For the last years with Maedhros and Maglor had been emotionally taxing enough that he cannot meet the next situation unprepared.

Thankfully Fëanor doesn't argue.

With a sigh he explains, "Lord Námo has announced that Findekáno will be the first member of the House of Nolofinwë that will be released from his halls. Which is a great surprise for all of us, since there was little hope in ever seeing anyone of them walking these shores again."

While Fëanor speaks those words, Erestor realizes that he had never asked how the rest of the House of Finwë is faring. So far he assumed that with the release of the doomed line of the eight-pointed star, Curufinwë's siblings chose to put some recommended distance between themselves and their brother.

Yet Fëanor's expression tells a different story.

"I won't like, what you are about to tell me, aren't I?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I keep having ideas and somebody will want further answers soon, I will add any interludes (aka any focus that doesn't directly involve Erestor&Feanor) as separate fics / series. Mainly because smut and/or incest don't fit into my chapter count.


	6. Celebrimbor crafts the Doors of Moria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at the word count* *cries* *refuses to make plans for the future*
> 
> ... as always: Warnings are Spoilers, but the tags will be or already have been changed. Rating has been raised for some of the topic that will be discussed now and in the future. Seriouly, this fandom needs a guideline how canon descritions of past death/horror/violence should be rated.

Erestor is under no illusions what's coming. Over the ages he has experienced utter hopelessness, but he learned the trick how survive that state. If there's enough food, water and shelter around, all you need is one friend in order not to give up. In the last centuries those friends dwindled and Middle Earth changed after King Eldarion's children struggled to keep the memory of the past alive. There was a reason why he agreed to have the last ship build. It could not be worse in Aman than it was in Eriador at the time.

Yet Erestor is too pragmatic to expect endless bliss. His expectations have already been surpassed and having his family returned to him is a gift, but experience has taught him that nothing is free. There's always a price.

Since Fëanor hesitates to spill the truth at the same evening, Erestor is forced to wait for a few days. The departure of Maedhros, Maglor and Elrond takes precedence. During the night he is plagues by strange dreams, recollections of events in the past that he hasn't thought about in a long time, all brought forth by the image of Elrond at his fathers' sides and despite their fight the day prior the two eldest seem content.

While they don't look directly at each other, either of them keeps their son within arms reach.

"Come back in one piece," Erestor tells them when they are finally ready to ride out. "I can search for my father on my own, please don't sacrifice your renewed relationship for the bitter old man he's undoubtedly going to be."

It's proof of the change Elrond has gone through that he only smiles, amused and confident instead of saying anything. He mounts his horse with ease, all lingering pain from various battles and the taxing days of protecting Imladris from the raising shadow has disappeared. With his sword on his back and his dark cloak with the red markings he looks a lot like Ambarussa. A comparison Erestor has never made before and his heart aches how much the War of Wrath and Elros' loss might have destroyed.

Erestor turns towards Fëanor. "I barely recognize him."

It's not meant as negative comment, though it's not the entire truth either.

If Erestor _had_ to make a comparison who Elrond reminds him of the most he'd name the Peredhel's own sons. Or Irissë, perhaps.

Free spirited in a manner Elrond was never allowed to be. Unless, he is counting the short period at the End of the First Age, where the Peredhel screamed his rage, his grief and his emotions into the sky, picking a fight with anyone crossing his way. Yet logic and reason soon took over and instead of wearing his father's crest he swallowed his pride and joined Gil-galad's court. Whom he always called friend, but Erestor knows that they never got over the ideological differences that separated them.

"This is a fresh start for all of us. Aman _changed_ since Eru Ilúvater reshaped the world," Fëanor explains as they watch the small family leave, Elrond kept firmly between his two parents. "For instance, most of the Pelóri Mountains have been flattened or shattered as reprimand that against the Valar there's no need to defend themselves from Eru's own children."

"Is that the reason why you agreed to live among them?" Erestor admits that the question puzzled him.

He has witnessed speculations if Fëanor would accept a pardon if one was offered to him, but Erestor always denied the option. Not without the Valar confessing their wrongs and meeting them at least halfway. Many of the Noldor have forgotten that the immediate pursuit of Melkor by the swift Oromë and the mighty Tulkas after the Two Trees got destroyed failed. Only then, when the two greatest warriors they had known at this point, returned empty handed Fëanor took it upon himself not to let his father's murder go unpunished.

 _But it was never just about that,_ Erestor forces himself to remember. He had been there, right at his friend's side when the boys arrived with the news. In a way it had not been about losing Finwë, though it certainly hadn't left Fëanor unaffected. _All his fears came true this moment. The Valar could not protect us and therefore it fell to us to bring Morgoth to justice._

Depending on his mood Erestor used to decide if the price had it been worth it.

With Fëanor standing right next to him, glaring Curufin into silence as his son moves to hit Caranthir over the head for a third time, he slowly realizes the answer is yes.

Still there's more to the situation and his friend is slow to explain it.

"Don't be too hard on him, he's not doing it on purpose," a familiar voice explains and when Erestor turns around he heart almost stops.

He hasn't actually _seen_ Celebrimbor beyond the first family gathering the occasional glimpse from afar, rushed meetings without proper chance to catch up, because their daily routines didn't match. Now it's the first time Erestor can properly _look at_ his boy and the sight of him drives him to tears. It's been a long time his emotions breaks his composure, he has suffered too many losses in order to lose his head in a crises.

But this ...

Erestor has to take a deep breath, yet he can't move his hand away from his mouth. The tears start streaming down his face once the reality sinks in and he is able to process that there are truly no lingering scars on Celebrimbor's skin.

"Little one," he gasps and moves to take Celebrimbor into his arms.

He wraps them around the strong, healthy body and the Curvion allows the embrace, an act they hesitated to initiate in the Second Age. One of Erestor greatest regrets, especially knowing how it turned out. How avoidable Celebrimbor's death could have been, had they been less frigid with each other. But at this point non of the remaining members of the House of Fëanor had been able to look each other in the eyes. Each meeting had been a mirror of how much they had lost.

"It's really you," Erestor whispers and draws back to look at Celebrimbor again. His thumb runs over one cheek and his heart stutters as he finds his warm _and alive._

He should have had this reaction with each of the little Fëanorian's, but he had accepted them as adults long before they left Aman. Telperinquar on the other hand had been the bright joy of their family, born just a few decades before their exile to Formenos. In Fëanor's absence he helped to _raise_ the child, stepped in as grandfather since neither Curufin nor his wife could offer a grandparent to their son.

Losing him, especially in the manner he had, was to date the worst things he ever lived through.

"Yes, it's me. I promise, it's me," Celebrimbor says kindly. He sounds as if had been faced with such reactions before. "Before you ask, I'm well. I have already to talked to Elrond at length and if there's one thing I can ask of you, it's to banish the sight of my end from your mind."

Erestor trembles and he allows Celebrimbor to draw him away from the gate, taking away from the ruckus that is caused by Curufin going after Caranthir with a broom.

"You ask much of me," he answers, if not entirely honest.

It had been Elrond, who arrived first on the scene. Who was forced to witness how Sauron put the corpse of a beloved, if estranged family member on a stake. By the time Erestor got there, leading the reinforcements, the Peredhel had already killed and burned every Orc in sight and just moved to taking the body down. He hadn't been able to talk Erestor out of helping him, though sometimes he wishes Elrond had been more insistent. Yet the thought of the Canafinwion having to bear the nightmares of prepping Telperinquar's corpse for the pyre alone would have been worse, especially after Gil-galad's death.

"I know the feeling you struggle with. I have gone through similar motions myself. It was not easy for me to see my mother again and not immediately remember how she looked at the moments of her death," Celebrimbor tells him. He pulls Erestor on a bench in front of the house, for the old Elf is far to unsteady on his feet for his taste. "But it is possible, so I will ask you to do same for I am well and truly healed."

"How is this possible?" Erestor wants to know. "I am no longer able to believe in miracles, though this blissful dream has yet to dissolve before very eyes. Yet I have discovered hints that your families return is not the norm around here."

A shadow crosses over Celebrimbor's face and for a moment he looks once again like the very image of Curufin at his worst.

No, not quite. Curufin at his worst is so far unsurpassed and Erestor is glad that Celebrimbor never had to see his father this lost and afraid as he was in the years just before Doriath.

But it comes close, the shadow of the memory they all lived through.

 _We did. Somehow. We are all here, together,_ Erestor thinks. _Alive and well._

This thought triggers an idea and he can almost read Celebrimbor's expression like a book. It answers his questions all at once, doesn't it.

"Stars, that's it!" he gasps. "You said it yourself, you are healed. But it's _just_ you, isn't it? That's the reason why Fëanor only mentioned his siblings once, why none of your other cousins have come to bother us. _They_ are not fine, right?"

The feeling of dread transforms into honest grief, when Celebrimbor nods. Now he's glad that's not Fëanor breaking the news to him. Though he should have know that something was up, when his friend mentioned Fingolfin only once. Once and _only_ Fingolfin.

Despite public appearances and his own conflicted feelings about it, the eldest Finwion usually made sure to know what went in his siblings life. Reason being that he _had been_ fond of Findis, once she was born and the trouble only started when the society forced Fingolfin to comprehend the differences between himself and his older brother. Despite the rivalry, Fëanor made sure to look out for the rest of his siblings as well, although Nolofinwë didn't make that easy either. Too afraid that his older brother would take his siblings away from him, young Nolofinwë's fear only drove a deeper wedge between the House of Finwë.

Erestor's thoughts are racing. So far he assumed that Aman is big enough to keep the brother's from quarrelling, even if that never stopped the Noldor in Beleriand either.

As it seems there's far more serious reason for the lack of appearances from the other side of the family. Erestor feels shame that he hadn't thought of them, too happy to have his own back for himself.

"How?" Erestor ask, before Celebrimbor can get a word in. Or perhaps the Curvion is giving him time to process the thought that the majority is still lingering in the Halls of Mandos. "Should they not long released by now?"

"It's not the Valar who are keeping them there. The Doom has been lifted as far as possible, but it still exists in the minds of the dead. It's difficult to move on, when you are _stuck_ and that often in the worst moment of your life," Celebrimbor explains and leans back. He does not look like the desperate fool who ruled Eregion and whose heart cried for someone to numb his pain.

In hindsight, Erestor wants to hit himself for not seeing the similarities between father and son, for the behaviour in the last years of Telpe's life matches Curufin's in his last decade so exactly that it caused him nightmares for a very long time.

Yet, these memories exactly are what causes Erestor to scoff and raise his eyebrows. "Are you telling me that the House of Fëanor is better at self reflection than their kin?"

Celebrimbor makes an amused sound. "No, not exactly. That's not the _only_ reason why _we_ are here. However I must remind you: our family rarely forget that other options existed, we only chose not to engage in them."

His response his a suffering sigh and Erestor pictures the typical, stubborn Fëanorian grin that the boys _all_ inherited from their respective fathers - Telpe and Elrond included.

"Answer, Celebrimbor. Please, I deserve to know what happened to the rest us our folk," he says. "Don't try to distract me. I know this has all something to do with the earth shattering argument your uncles had a few days ago about Fingon. So what's the reason for all the ruckus, when the entire War of Wrath could not tear them apart?"

Telperinquar pulls a face, obviously considering how much he can say.

"I will not dispense any particular details, for this I need you to ask my uncles directly, but I do know that their argument about Fingon has something to do with their personal relationship. As you may as well know, there's a lot they refuse to tell us due to the fact how they lived in the last decades of the First Age. Elrond is the only person they are willing to involve, but they have promised grandfather that it is nothing that will tear the family apart."

"Fair enough," Erestor agrees and wonders why he did not consider the possibility earlier.

On the other hand, he doesn't know how long Maedhros and Maglor are back with each other and how recent their argument is. The reminder of Fingolfin's early issues with his siblings is proof how relationships within families can change over time.

"As for what I can tell you, since the rest is public knowledge, I may use the example of the ring bearer that arrived with Elrond." Celebrimbor turns his face towards the morning sun and Arien paints his hair into the shade of rich wine. A colour that had been lost after Curufin's death.

"Yes, I remember Frodo," Erestor carefully says.

He doesn't want to delve into a discussions about the Hobbits. Back then it shamed him that no Noldor would accompany the fellowship and it had been one of the last fights he had with Elrond. The Peredhel refused to let him volunteer. Less, because he did not acknowledge that Erestor was less likely to fall under the spell of the ring than others, but rather because he was needed to keep the monsters of Angmar at bay. He chafed under the order, but he heeded it.

His only consolation was that Glorfindel had not been allowed to go either.

But apparently Frodo's journey was not what Celebrimbor has in mind. Instead the Fëanorian points out, "Good, then I hope you remember the wound he received from one of the Fallen Kings of Men. Despite the decades that passed and the healing he received, the wound refused to heal."

"He was pierced by a Morgul blade," Erestor recollects, but the details about the wound itself escape him. Instead he gets an idea what Celebrimbor is trying to tell him.

"The healers here in Valinor have a lot practice by now how to take care of these wounds, but such damage regenerates at very slow place. Elrond's wife will be another example you can connect with."

"How is Celebrían?" Erestor shots upright. A shame that he forgot to ask about her, but he can blame Elrond for not mentioning her either.

In his defence, he witnessed so many people leaving him one way or another that he lost track of those who actually died and those who sailed west. In Middle Earth there's not much difference between it.

"She lives in Lórien and assists the Healers. Unlike Frodo's wound the source of her agony was her mind, namely the memories she carried with her. Compared to the injuries some of our kin carry, her recovery was swift and painless." Celebrimbor swifts as if he's bracing himself for delivering bad news.

Erestor does not interrupt him, for he knows how difficult it can be to be the dreaded messenger.

"Perhaps I should give you a run down which members from the line of Indis are among us. I will start with Finrod, since the news of his rebirth carried over in the War of Wrath. It had been a joy to hear back then, today our cousin is seen as a symbol for what happened to the rest of our family, albeit he's just the precedent."

Years and years of preparing for the worst, learning what the enemy might still take away from you on top of that, taught Erestor a lot.

He does not like to jump to conclusion, but Celebrimbor left him enough clues to follow.

"Now matter how much they embellished the tale over time, it's difficult to forget how Findaráto died," Erestor says, scratching his head. He does not want to picture it in detail, he has seen enough victims of wargs in his lifetime. "Can I guess that the Valar released him to increase the morale before the coming battle and they misjudged his readiness to return?"

Celebrimbor nods. "His wounds reappeared. The wisest action would have been to retreat to the Gardens of Lórien, but since his father was absent he decided to push through and keep his act together. For that act alone Arafinwë wished to make him King Regent the very least upon his return, yet they discovered that the scars he acquired in the mean time did not allow such recognition."

The words are tribute of his character and his mother's influence in his upraising. Curufin would have been far less polite, regardless his relationship with Finrod. Yet in a way it leaves Erestor with too much imagination. He has aided Elrond often enough to take care of his patients, when they were short staffed. Wolf bites are ugly wounds and often crippling, if the victim does survive them. The very least they carry life long pain with them, because the muscles never grow back together the way the used to be. Especially if large chunks of flesh are missing.

A horrifying thought crosses his mind.

"Did he die _again?_ " Erestor wants to know. He has never entertained the idea what being reborn could mean.

Is it possible to go to Mandos _twice?_

As far as he remembers Glorfindel moved with a confidence through life that made such ideas impossible. Yet, in theory ... why not? Erestor has seen the Lord bleed, the logical conclusion should be that he can _bleed out_ just fine.

"According to what I have been told the possibility has been considered. Finrod refused, of course and I can understand why. Though I don't know I wished to live with the reminders of my death if I had the even slightest chance to get rid of them."

At Erestor's questioning gaze he elaborates, "From what I understand the wounds are not on his hröa. They have sunken into his soul and each day Finrod lives with them, makes it more difficult to break their hold on him. He says he's fine, but I will bet the another three rings of power that the memories plague him day and night."

"Understandable," Erestor murmurs. "But what has this to do with Fingon? With Fingolfin? The others? I find it difficult to believe that we fared better in Middle Earth than the souls in Mandos' care."

"It's less about the wounds we suffered or how we died. Lord Námo describes it as remnants of Morgoth' power that affects many like a sickness that is not easily treated," Celebrimbor explains. His frustration is obvious, yet he has the face of an artist who hopes a fresh pair of eyes may finally bring the solution to an everlasting problem. "Take it like this, those who died at Alqualondë returned a long time ago since they died through the hands of their kin. Similar with most the other victims through elvish in-fighting. The Sindar have established their kingdom in the south and are thriving well from what I hear. Yet all those brave people who died fighting the shadow are still in the Halls and that includes the souls of the Edain. Dwarves are a little more sturdy, I have been told, but they suffer consequences as well."

"Does it make a difference if you died through Morgoth's work directly or through the hands of his creatures?"

Erestor tries to comprehend how far the damage might reach. As mind-numbing as the thought might be that the Kinslayings had been _good for something,_ his focus moves towards all those who died through the hands of Orcs. As untrained these creatures had been, the numbers had often been overwhelming and they liked to use the tactic of tiring their enemies out. Especially if they managed to wound someone to the degree, where the warrior could not ride out of his own strength anymore but the battle commander refused to leave him behind.

It had been one of the hardest lessons to learn and always the hardest he had to teach. Sometimes, as a leader and responsible for those in your care, you had to choose who would die today.

"If it helps you, the Valar declared the coming of Second Age for that reason. Anyone who died after Morgoth was locked away beyond the Doors of the Night, was less at risk to suffer the soul's disease."

The pause Celebrimbor makes and the anger in his eyes is very telling.

Hence why Erestor manages to finish his sentence for him. "Unless your name is Ereinion Gil-galad and you challenge Morgoth' second in command to a duell in open combat."

"Yes," Celebrimbor growls and he draws his knees to his chest. "He's doing better, but it's own fault for being so bloody stupid. Was he trying to out do me as good example for bad decisions?"

In a way it's a relief to see that some old constants had not changed after all this time. Telperinquar still liked to pretend that Ereinion was a pompous idiot with too many opinions about matters that he had no business sticking his nose into.

"Well, there are enough contestants regarding that title, but interests me ... why are you here? Should not torture weight more than being killed in battle?"

Especially given Sauron's personal interest in Telpe and his refusal to take Gil-galad seriously. A play that worked far too well on the King of the Noldor, no matter how often Elrond tried to explain it to him.

Celebrimbor's gaze turns towards him and for a moment Erestor sees pain, torture and fire reflected in them. Yet despite his expectations, it's not as forefront in Telpe's mind as it probably should be.

"It's a curious thing. I fashioned the door with Narvi to last through ages and Elrond told me that the gate still stands. However no one lives in Khazad-Dûm anymore. Now my work guards a grave and I wonder if I should have taken into consideration all along," the smith says quietly. "Even the Eldar have yet to learn how powerful death truly is ... and the forces that last beyond that."

"I would not call the Doors of Moria your only work." Erestor promises himself to tell Celebrimbor one day about the successful campaign to reclaim Durin's city.

But Celebrimbor lets out a hollow laugh. "If you hint at the rings, I wonder if they had been my idea at all. Three powerful objects made by the House of Fëanor, aligned with the light and the good in the world, yet bound to the endless fate of sky, soil and water."

Telpe looks devastated when he turns towards him again and Erestor cannot cling to his self composure any longer. He wraps his arms around his grandchild and holds on.

"If you are referencing the Silmarils, then I will tell you that I don't care," he says and hopes it more truth than lie.

Unfortunately Celebrimbor is not easily deterred. "We can hint, reference and speculate all day. Fact is that I tried to fill a void and the symbolism of my own creation has not escaped me. Furthermore, according to Mandos own words it was the Oath that protected me, my uncles and my grandfather from suffering the same fate many still struggle with."

 _So the blasted thing was good for something?_ It's Erestor's first thought, despite the many evenings he spent questioning himself how much history would have changed had he uttered the words as well.

For he does not protest Celebrimbor's claim that he had been affected - and therefore somehow _protected_ \- by the Oath. For neither of them had needed it to follow their family through hell. Erestor had even less ground to stand on than Telpe, who never participated in the Kinslayings.

Yet the truth is that he does not know what answer to these claims either.

It's a lot to swallow all that once and he can see why Fëanor hesitated. Erestor doubts that he would have acted differently, had their cases been reversed. Obviously he will need to know more details. The implication that they could lose their kin to Mandos forever, to a bastard that has been defeated and locked away for over eight thousand years of the sun just cannot stand.

 

-

 

When Fëanor finds him later, still seated on the bench, it takes him one look to guess what happened. Their minds were always close, to a degree where oswanë was no longer needed.

"I can take you to Lórien and explain the components a bit further if you like," his friend offers. "But I can understand, why I you would rather not. Some of the fates are not pleasant nor easy to stomach."

"I am not here to look stand around and look pretty." Erestor draws himself up to full height. There's a long forgotten feeling of determination being returned to him again. This is what made him last through almost five ages and he doesn't care if it takes them just as long to get their kin out of Mandos.

This time he is not alone.

With Fëanor's amused and in part hopeful smile, Erestor has the answer he had been looking for ever since he watched Elrond sail.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams and shakes laptop* ... WILL YOU FINALLY STOP TALKING??? .... Groar!  
> I guess there are so much reference in this that I can't include all of them, but I can try: 
> 
> 1\. The entire blasted idea that hit me, shortly after making Erestor Fëanor's best friend. I wanted to inverse the oath, wondered what kind of benefits it might had in the long run. Here, Morgoth shadows did not affect the Fëanorians (their followers to a lesser degree) because the Oath was at work already. It wrapped itself around their souls like a second skin, changed them into something questionable but it protected them from Morgoth as well. In this case at least, I'm aware of the version where Morgoth used the Oath for his own end. Now it's the other way around, the Kinslayings had not been influenced, but that made it easier for Námo to let everyone sort it out among themselves. 
> 
> 2\. Which brings me to my second point: long lasting effects aka trauma. I guess it's possible to bounce back from battle and it helps that I see the Fëanorians are more the warrior type than the rest of their kin. But it's entire different matter if you have to handle depression/suicidical thoughts via Morgoth sticky hands on top of it. Though it's less 'active' and more than poison that has to be purged from your soul / radiation you can't see but it's destructive in it's own way. 
> 
> 3\. Sorry Finrod, but you are going to be the bad example what early release / exposure can to do a person. In your defense, Námo didn't know any better. 
> 
> 4\. Forget that this was ever called Feanorian Fun Bingo. It's just Feanorian Bingo now. 
> 
> 5\. I think I will outsource eventual smut / the incest pairings into oneshots. Cause there are side stories that don't fit into this story. 
> 
> 6\. Curvion sounds better than Curufinion? Curufinwion? It's almost as bad as the nightmare with Eöl + ion! (Eölion? Eöllion? Eolion? Eohlion?)
> 
> 7\. Erestor not very honest with himself regarding Feanor's relationship with his siblings. Aka: he refuses to see that his presence might have played a role.


	7. The Beauty in Walking Away

 

It's a harsh and unacknowledged truth: Everyone has an unwanted opinion about his family and its history. Elrond claims he's used to it and that he's above the spiteful comments. Over the time those people turned towards politeness, silence and curt conversations. It's a relief that his sons never minded the travelling and any kind of relationship they had with the Greenwood is a credit to their skills in diplomacy. For Elrond never liked being a guest himself. He rather stayed in Imladris, where people know better than to talk about his parents. 

Close friends learn respect his wishes, though Elrond rarely argues with them about the topic of Maglor and Maedhros itself.

Instead he becomes polite and distant. Glorfindel learns how to read his mood. When he's welcome to talk about Gondollin, Turgon and other relatives ... and when it's wise to keep his mouth shut for Elrond has the unnecessary habit to ride on patrol himself to burn off his silent seething anger.

_Worse,_ Elrond thinks as he walks down the beach on the shores of Valinor,  _have always been the pitying looks._

The last weeks they spent in the small town near the harbour in order to recover from the journey had been pleasant. Yet Elrond cannot escape the feeling that everyone is staring at him. Whispering behind his back about his lineage, his Half-Elven status and his parentage. It's a surprise that half of the House of Finwë hasn't lined up to meet and claim him. 

To be truthful, there had been no one to greet them. The harbour is used to ships coming from Middle Earth. Since the townsfolk has no way of knowing when the next ship arrives or who will be upon it, the citizens have turned to tradition to leave the travellers alone for a while. They will help to set up reunions, but the Lord's conviction is that such meetings should not happen the moment tired souls step on land the first time in months. 

A wise decision. Elrond still feel unsettled as result. He braved himself for an onslaught of of distant relatives. Instead he's left to fend for himself in a strange and unknown land. 

The cold wind pulls at his clothing and turns his hair into a knotted mess his eyes find the horizon. Beyond that wide vast ocean are his four children. No doubt that the twins are going to leave Imladris in Erestor's care for a while. They are doting on the little Eldarion. Elrond wonders if enough time in Middle Earth had passed to gift his grandson a sibling. 

"I hope you are well," he says and prays that the wind will carry the message to his children.

Grey clouds run over the sky and the longer Elrond stands on the beach, just out of reach in order not to get cold feet as the waves crash onto the shore beneath him, he wonders if he made the right choice. He hadn't wanted to go, but as healer he had seen the signs. Almost three ages of fighting against the same enemy had taken its toll and with the majority of their people having sailed, it would have been difficult to recover.

"If we don't sail now, we will never find the courage," Galadriel had said on Eldarion's first birthday. The news of Arwen's pregnacy brought any plans to sail West to a stop. Even Mithrandir , who urged them to board a ship rather sooner than later, acknowledged that no force in Arda would be great enough to keep them from riding to Gondor.

They stayed for two years, aiding Arwen through her pregnancy and celebrated Eldarion's birth.

Saying goodbye to Aragon and Arwen had been difficult. The light in his daughter's eyes, the open joy in her face Imladris had never been able to bring out in her made it possible to let go. Bound before the eyes of Eru, Elrond knows that their souls will find each other again wherever the circles of the world may lead them. 

Yet nothing had been so hard as embracing Eldarion for the final time.

He managed not to cry in front of his grandson, not wishing to upset him. This fact alone had been the reason in the first place to finally set a date for the journey. The older Eldarion got, the more difficult it would be for him to understand why parts of his family is never coming back.

His own faint memories of his confusion and his unanswered questions if Eärendil would be coming back soon played the final role in making the desicion. Rather, he leaves his grandson early enough that he will get over it quickly before he is able to form clear memories of him. Before Elrond turns from a fantastic tale to a absent disappointment.

_I hope he knows he's loved,_ Elrond thinks and kicks a stone into the water.  _Arwen and Estel will tell him. They understand._

Though they probably had not counted on the lack of Celebrían's support. That, at least, is something they will never learn and Elrond is glad about it. Her arrival filled him with joy at first, seeing her healed eased his heart yet even five-hundred years of separation had done nothing to erease their last conversation at the Grey Havens.

For a wounded Celebrían begged him to come with her. Elrond, his mind filled with duty, determination and vengeance, refused.

Knowing it would end their marriage.

After the trauma his wife lived through it's nothing but understandable. She expected loyalty towards her person and could not bear the rejection that Elrond put Imladris first. He might not be their King, as Celebrían put it, but he still had a responsebility towards the remnants of his people.

Enough pondering alone in lonely hours taught Elrond that they would have grown apart anyway.

They had fancied each other in love once and Elrond remembers the time with fondness. In their hearts they never set aside certain ideological differences. For Celebrían is and always will be her father's daughter. She was a Sinda, proud of her heritage - and she never took it well that all of her three children lean towards his side of the family. That they are more Men and Noldor at heart and in spirit. That they are not grateful for the blood of Thingol, Melian and Luthien flowing through their veins. 

How ironic that Elrond is now closer to Galadriel than Celebrían. A fact that probably makes any kind of return to previous fondness for each other utterly impossible.

Starting with the fact that Elrond does not  _understand_ how it's possible to despise a parent and yet continue to interact with them. 

In his case, Elrond is proud to say that Elwing no longer means anything to him. She gave birth to him and Elros, yet the moment she made her choice she lost any obligations he might owe to her. Unlike many other things for his early childhood he remembers very clearly how Elwing stood on the balcony, refusing to bargain with the approaching and in that moment  _unarmed_ Fëanorian. For Maglor set his sword aside, because he did not with frighten her any further. 

The words have long been eaten by the winds of time, yet Elrond vividly recalls how Maglor tried to calm Elwing. Began talking to her in a soft voice, attempted to convince her to climb down as she hopped onto the railing.

Elrond doesn't know if his brother ever notices, but there had been a moment when Elwing looked at them. One final time, where she considered her situation. Then, convinced of the horrible end her children will find at the hands of the Fëanorian she flung herself into the sea. Neither bravery or hope had moved Elwing to jump that night. Rather it had been the fear to end like her brothers.

Understandable, from a certain kind of view. He fought enough wars and Orcs in order not to condemn a person for their fears.

Yet, as her son, he's not required to love her it either.

Feeling lost and alone Elrond wonders how long he can remain here until someone comes looking for him. In Imladris his absence would have been noticed within an hour. Here it's been an entire day already and no one is coming for him.

_Is that not prove enough that they only rallied around me, because I was their last hope? They had no other choice and clung to the idea that I would aspire to surpass my forefathers one day._ Elrond scoffs at the thought. His introduction into Gil-galad's camp started with various comparions which King in his lineage he resembled most. 

He blames those comments that Elros choose differently in the end. That he became the greatest King among the Edain rather than living with Thingol's and Fingolfin's shadow.

  
  


-

  
  


It's Glorfindel, who finds him. 

"The last place I expected you to be is the sea," Glorfindel admits as he hands his friend a coat.

"One reason why I chose to come here," Elrond answers and wraps the thick clothing around him. He hadn't noticed how cold it had gotten until the warmth engulfs him again. "I wished to be alone."

Glorfindel does not comment on Elrond's mood. Since Elrond usually avoids any prolonged stays at the sea and having been the one to suffer the most during the journey, it says a lot that he's drawn back here. Given that he found him staring east, it's not a great surprise. The Elven Lord draws Elrond away, on top of the dune.

"I have a surprise for you," he says. "It took a while for the word of your arrival to reach them since they live further away than Celebrían does."

Confused Elrond stares into Glorfindel's face as they climb the hill. His first reaction is to request more solitude, but his rational mind says that he cannot avoid the polite conversations forever. Relatives and close friends are bound to turn up after Three Ages of meeting people of various races and distinctions.

"I'm not in any kind of mood for company," Elrond says. Glorfindel's serious expression stops him from arguing any further.

Instead he follows his friend's pointed finger and it takes him minutes to comprehend the situation. Frozen and unbelieving he stares down to the couple standing beside each other. Closer than it's approciate. They appear to be holding each other back from storming the beach. Both are dressed in familiar clothing and Elrond spots a familiar star woven into the fabric. The first man has soft black hair, a sharp-edged face and dangerous looking eyes. The other person possesses rich red hair instead of black and it flutters in the wind. 

_I have never seen him with long hair before,_ Elrond thinks and the thought startles him out of his trance. 

With a sob he runs down the hill, his legs carrying him swiftly and it's a wonder that he does not fall for tears blurs his side.

"Ada!" Elrond cries and crashes into two pairs of waiting arms.

He falls into the embrace and disappears as the two Fëanorians drag him between their bodies, shielding Elrond from view and the entire world. They watch and guard as he dissolves into tears and sobs wreck his breathing. Two large hands settle on his shoulders while another pair strokes his head. Elrond does not make out the words they speak to him, instead he holds on and refuses to let go as Maedhros and Maglor help him through of six thousand years of grief.

  
  


-

  
  


"Elrond, please look at me," Maglor finally says after his son's tears finally dried up. But his child is clinging to him still, wrapping himself around his chest while making sure not to let go of Maedhros as well.

Slowly his son raises his head and Maglor cannot help but to smile. Love, relief and adoration pours into the old connection and in return he gets all the emotion Elrond never dared to show anyone since he lost Elros and Celebrimbor.

"I'm so happy to see you," Maglor whispers and takes in the sight of his son. "It has been too long and I regret that I never made it back to your side."

"What happened to you?" Elrond croaks. He alters between clinging to his father and looking at Maedhros. By now they are all sitting and kneeling on the ground since Elrond's legs wouldn't hold him upright anymore. The weight of six thousand years of doubt and wondering now take their toll, yet finally there's someone to catch him.

"I never stopped looking for you after I heard reports of your survival. When you never turned up, I thought..." 

"Oh yonya, it's not your fault." Maglor thightens his grip and he feels how Maedhros squeezes his hand in support. Guilt swings in his voice as he explains, "I admit that I was not in my best condition after the war, but I never wished to leave the world without seeing you at least one more time. Yet the great wave that sunk Beleriand carried me away and I wandered the world, lost and often without knowing who I was. I give you my word that I would have returned to aid you against Sauron, had I just known in which direction I was supposed to be heading."

There's more to the story, Elrond can sense that. Since he's not in the condition to listen to a long and complicated tale he focuses on the fact that circumstances and tragedy separated them. Not Maglor's guilt, his shame or his misguided belief Elrond would not want him at his side.

He turns towards Maedhros and the sight is what makes him think this is actually real.

"I never thought I would see you again."

In a way the old Maedhros is gone. The two hands are the most obvious change, the lack of scars on his body and in his soul another. He moves without pain weighting him down, without hate and worry cruising through his veins. His terrifying determination that caused Orc hordes to tremble in fear has sunken back beneath the surface and Elrond is convinced this is King Nelyafinwë was supposed to be.

"Change is inevitable, even for the Valar," Maedhros says and lifts his hand to run it through Elrond's hair. He appears to be studying him for a moment. Yet instead of feeling judged and found wanting, like it happened so often in his life, Maedhros' eyes gleam with pride.

"You have come so far, little one. You weathered the world alone, your actions lead to Sauron's downfall and unlike us you had no family to fall back on."

Before Elrond can say anything Maedhros composure breaks and he draws him into his arms. It's a different kind of embrace than the one from Maglor. Less nerve-wrecking and made of calm, solace and unwavering support. Elrond hears the strong heart beating in Maedhros chest and draws strength from it. It's been a long time since he allowed himself that, for there were always people who needed it more than him.

"I love you," the older Fëanorian whispers. " _We_ love you and if you allow it, we'd like to be part of your family again." 

"Ada!" Elrond says and buries his face in Maedhros' chest. For there's no other answer he can give.

  
  


-

  
  


Since Glorfindel was a truer friend than Elrond previously gave him credit for, he had made sure Elrond has everything he needs. Horses are waiting for them a little further back, already packed with his belongings.

"I do not need to know where you will be going," Glorfindel addresses Elrond first. "I witnessed your suffering for centuries and nothing hurt more than the realization that I could not help you. Fortunately the mist upon my memories passed when we crossed the borders of Valinor's realm."

"We will explain everything," Maedhros promises. Just like his brother he refuses to move from Elrond's side more than a few inches. This way, they will walk down the road for the distance between the horses is unable to bear right now. "Later. I would like to settle first and get you out of the cold."

He speaks as if Elrond is a little Elfling that dressed poorly as it headed out to play, only to return home sick and freezing. Given that's how Elrond felt for greater parts of his life ever since Celebrimbor's death shattered his last link to his family, he does not mind the treatment.

"I will see you again, my friend. Please know that there are no words for what you have done today." Elrond speaks his farewell to Glorfindel. It's clear that it will be some time until they will see each other again, but thankfully Glorfindel has always been someone who will be fine. Who will land on his feet and drag himself home.

There's nothing but kindness in Glorfindel's eyes as he takes the reigns of his own horse.

"They would have found you on their own, but each day you live in suffering, longing for the family you lost as a child, is wasted in the face of the fact that they returned centuries ago."

Elrond is too happy to react to the reveal. Question will arise soon enough, but for now he has no want for further answer. Instead he resists to slip his hands into that of parents and walk between them like a child.

When Maglor settles a hand on his back, though, it has the same effect.

"Will you ride with me?" he asks and Elrond answers with a happy grin.

Right now, any distance between him and his fathers is cruel and unnecessary.

  
  


-

  
  


Looking back, Elrond cannot say how much time passed from when they mounted the horses and rode inland. He remembers the relief of being able to leave the hated sight of the sea behind and how he went to sleep many times at either Maglor's or Maedhros side. Often they shared a single tent and did little then provide for themselves.

Weeks turned into months before Elrond finally voices his growing curiosity.

"For our tale to make sense you must understand that Mandos is not a prison," Maedhros finally explains after they have settled down for the evening. Strange stars and other lights in the sky shine from above and Elrond is glad that Eärendil is not as obvious in Aman as it is in Middle Earth. "Originally the halls had been build for the Ainur, in case they needed to recover or sought solitude. It's a place, where they go to sleep and to meditate. Yet Lord Námo had to discover that his home did not suit the needs of the Children." 

In response he had to remodel them. The death Morgoth left in his wake, quickly forced any issues he had with Fëanor to be put aside. So he approached him to prevent needless suffering. For after long arguments they realized that Melkor was still their common enemy and neither of them could bear to see innocents suffer.

In the next hours Elrond learns how Námo realized that no one but the Eldar themselves are responsible for their return into the music. It's not up to him to degree, who is worthy of life and who is doomed to stay in his care. Reembodiment is only possible if the soul itself was ready, therefore he approached his brother Irmo and they created many doors leading out of Mandos.

"It's a road. A journey no one can make for you," Maedhros tries to explain. "I have been told it's different for everyone. Some relive the worst moments of their lives until they manage to think of a different outcome. Others flicker in and out of dreams, visiting their loved ones to find forgiveness until they comprehend that the dead speak only in silence."

"So it's a matter of self-reflection?" Elrond mumbles under his breath, trying to make sense of it.

It reminds him of the many years he worked as healer. Aside from the actual wounds his warriors suffered, there have always been a few which suffered pain until the moment they finally overcame their fear to face the future again.

Maglor's voice is quiet and solemn as he says, "Many fëa harbour the desire to be have a hröa again. Yet they balk at the risk of getting hurt. After all, death could be waiting for them. There's no guarantee for a save, blissful existence that is free of mistakes, regret and failure."

Which is apparently the reason why Aman changed after the Noldor going into exile. The land is bigger, the borders changed their path. The Pelóri Mountains vanished in large part, realms moved and one big and famous cities were left abandoned. Valinor had also gotten more dangerous, more prone to produce bad crops or kill its residents through storms, landslides or wild animals.

"Aman is free of Morgoth Shadow. Yet death is no longer a great unknown, the Valar less influential." Maedhros attempts to ease Elrond's worries, not liking the deep frown upon the forehead of his son.

Elrond nods, satisfied. "Good. One of the many reasons for delaying the journey was the thought of a risk free life. To live in peace and bliss, wrapped in ignorance while my kin bleeds out in Middle Earth."

Maedhros and Maglor listen attentively as Elrond tells them of a common theory among Eldar in Middle Earth. How they feared that the Valar took to much for their blessed land without giving back anything in return. How they stole life, light and magic from the mortal world for their peace in paradise.

"An interesting theory. You should mention it to father, he will be delighted to discuss it with you," Maedhros says.

It takes Elrond's stunned face for him to remember that he said nothing of the return regarding the rest of his family. After everything his son has dealed with in his long life, he should be able to face five exicted uncles, one beloved cousin and a possessive grandfather.

  
  


-

  
  


Like always, Erestor learns through observation. He prefers to be given a task and not to take the spotlight. Daily habits tell him a lot about a person and Erestor judges them by how much effort they put into their assignments, be it either a duty or just an excercise. He's relieved to find the House of Fëanor unchanged. For a while he feared the relationship between the brothers is loving, yet superficial. But over the weeks he finds Celegorm storming the house, because he needs help and Caranthir drops everything to follow his brother out of the door. 

Curufin and his son are making painfully precise steps to ensure an open communication. It goes from writing down tasks, chores and time schedules for the forge to minutes of silence where Curufin obviously thinks carefully about what to say next.

The greatest surprise still is seeing Fëanor working closely with Elrond. Showing him drafts, debating with for hours and taking his opinion into consideration - and Erestor cannot say if is Fëanor who has become more open-minded or if it's solely Elrond's work.

"My grandson has a curious mind," Fëanor explains when Erestor voices his questions. The Highking looks proud and content. "He is a great healer, but the true skill lies in his hard labours to find more solutions for a single problem. Here in Aman Healers sole rely on magic, where Elrond had to learn to parse his strength. Instead he experimented with potions, herbs and muscle therapy. Therapy, Erestor! He has vast knowledge of entire therapeutic fields that are unknown to us. Answers to shell shocked fëa, first aid in dire circumstances, cures of diseases that affect the mind and that do not require a single song of power!"

"I always guessed you would make good companions, regardless of his family history," Erestor says. "But I never dared to hope. Such mentor- let alone an equal partnership always seemed beyond Elrond's possibilities. Most Elves lacked in skill, interest or understanding to work with him."

Either that or the lack of time prevented the many mortals to become what Elrond needed. Estel came close and for this reason alone Erestor grieves that the Valar did not grant him Tuor's gift.

Fëanor sets down his pen. "He has not many friends, does he?"

With a tired expression Erestor shakes his head.

"True friends are rare for Elrond. Too many require his time, his skill and his strength first. Those who only seek out his wisdom, have no right to such title."

He has difficulties to determine if he should count himself. Elrond may see it this way, but does not Erestor's promise to Fëanor prevent an equal relationship? Did his duty drive him to befriend Elrond regardless of his character? He likes to think that they became friends anyway. Maybe he counts as family member.

Yet as with so many other people in Elrond's life ... how much happened out of obligation? Out of duty towards a lost family member or a fallen King Elrond is related to?

"I think you underestimate him," Fëanor says, reading Erestor's thoughts through sheer habit. "Elrond is a man tested by fire. He has learned how to behave when life is merciful, though it rarely was in his case. He conducts himself with kindness, even when fate only gives him a fraction of a second to breath between the rough rounds he fights against the dark forces of the world. I do not care if he learned where he has learned mercy or which part of his past is responsible for it, but I do know that I will love him forever for being able to grant it."

A part of him was moved by Fëanor's speech. Those were true words, much like those he spoke as the world was engulfed in darkness. Yet another part thought how much of this was gratitude. Erestor did not doubt that Elrond's love for his parents, had saved Maedhros' and Maglor's souls. Elros' loyalty never went that deep, never turned into the fierce, never ending determination to side with the House of the Fëanor.

Compared to his brother, Elros always kept his foster parents at arm length.

Still ... in the manner how Fëanor and Elrond respected each other, Erestor guessed that it was love that connected them. For did not the mortals say it was not love, if you could stop or control your feelings? He also heard them joke about the ways of the Eldar, how they often committed themselves to one partner only. To the one soul lovers claimed Eru designed for them.

_'Dwarves call it 'Their One'. They marry only once and do not understand the difference between a kindred spirit and the love of your life,'_ Erestor recalled Estel's confession why he did not married Arwen, when they met again in Lothlórien. Upon his question where the difference laid, Aragon answered.  _'One of them is a desicion you make over and over again: You chose their side in times of doubt, despair and mistrust. The other is lust, infatuation or simple passion - for how can you call it love if you are not aware that you devotion is based on a choice?'_

Conversations like this reminded Erestor that even Mithrandir, proud and eccentric Maia he was, bowed to Aragorn's wisdom. For Erestor another proof that Fëanor's love for his children is something that transgresses blood feuds, time, space and fate itself.

The fact that it could be inherited without requiring his physical presence Erestor takes as a sign that Fëanor always had been the one and true Highking of the Noldor.

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I decided that "Elrond meets the other Fëanorians" is a whole different fic, because ... holy shit it would be epic. Full of Angst, knowing myself. 
> 
> 2\. Elrond and Fëanor as friends. Imagine it. And Maedhros too drunk on happiness to stop them. 
> 
> 3\. The first sentence of this chapter is the whole reason for this chapter. It got stuck in my head and the reunion scene is one of those scenes that I have always wanted to write. 
> 
> 4\. Last scene is a jab at the eternal questions if having a soulmate is a good thing. Not that I don't love a good soulmate/-mark fic, but in the light of Luthien and Beren I wager that Aragorn has opinions about it. That or it's the result of Elrond's "No Oath Swearing" education. 
> 
> 5\. How to get out of Mandos: a personal opinion. Námo does not grow empty bodies on trees and he has learned his lesson of throwing people back into live who are not ready for it.


	8. Intermission: How do I love thee? - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond deals his fathers, history and the various members of his newfound family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not forgotten this fic and since Fëanorian Week is about to hit us, I decided to get back into it instead of writing something new. I cannot promise I will manage seven chapters within the next week, but the ambition exists. 
> 
> Warnings: War of Wrath / First Age Horrors. Aka the Usual. Also, tiny hints of non-explicit incest in future chapters.

Straight from the beginning their stay is meant to be temporary. 

When Maedhros first agrees to take the two small children with them, he does not expect have them around for so long. At first, he does not even see them that often. He has an army to take care of, has to put up a new defence against the north with a remnant of resources he still has available to him. 

The tasks keeps him distracted. Especially since the failure to retrieve the Silmaril is far more catastrophic than future lore master could imagine. 

Maedhros has no trouble admitting later, that they had been desperate. He and his surviving brothers debated long on whenever another Kinslaying is worth the risk. But all four of them had been willing to commit another horrible act if it meant being able to holding Angband's forces at bay. 

With the Silmaril in their hands they would have been able to keep the armies north Andram, turning Amon Ereb into the great fortress of defence it was meant to be. Ambarussa had build the city keeping more desperate days in mind. Though Caranthir had mocked them for raising a fortress so far away from Angband. They could have never imagined they might actually  _need_ Amon Ereb one day, but in the last decades Maedhros is often seen muttering thanks and words of gratitude to his fallen brothers. Since the twins are now gone, the task of manning the Rivers of Gelion falls to him. 

The only reason why they are not overrun are the dwarves and the brave descendants of the Haladin and the Hador. They are all equally desperate, willing to cast differences aside in order to protect whatever kin they have left. 

Most of these people see the attack on Sirion quite differently than it is later written. Maedhros suspects there were not enough people left to spread their vision of the event. Nevertheless, in Sirion died fewer people than the numbers of soldiers they lost on makeshift walls later on. Ambarussa is a personal loss Maedhros has fortunately no time to linger on, but the actual number of the fallen is quite low. 

Later, much later, in the Halls of Mandos he will have time to track down people who lived through the events on the other side and he will learn why Sirion suffered such devastation, but during the War of Wrath he simply has other things to worry about. 

(There will be Loremasters in Valinor, writing down reports from survivors and the reembodied, and they too will realize that fewer people died in Sirion than originally assumed. The Fëanorians spread terror through their sheer arrival, but killed less due to outmatching the many refugees in skill, endurance and century long battle experience. 

The Loremaster will also learn that the panic spreading through the city did more damage than the Fëanorian Army. The question whether Elwing informed Sirion's citizens of Maedhros' demands remains a mystery. 

Maedhros himself has his own opinion, given how Sirion was little more than a glorified refugee camp with no definite ruler who controlled and commanded the many fractions and different races.) 

The result is the same. 

The children they take with them to Amon Ereb slip from his mind in the first years. Maedhros forgets their existence while Maglor recovers from an injury and coordinates their forces, making Maedhros the battle commander at the front. 

By the time Maedhros returns and has time to spare to actually think about the two boys, which officially hold a status as hostages, they have long turned calling themselves Sons of Maglor. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


He has no time to ask how much of the claim is the truth. One twin looks like Caranthir, given how much he scowls in Maedhros' direction. The other ... is a disturbing puzzle of the many family members he lost through the centuries, so Maedhros decides to treat them as young recruits. He is aware that they are  _too young, thank you for telling me Makalaurë._ If he does maths in his head, they are little more than toddlers. Barely old enough to begin an apprenticeship, even in times like these, but he has little choice. 

They have to know how to defend themselves, hence why Elrond and Elros get to know him by falling into the mud. He teaches them how to fight, how to survive, how to use any means necessary to see another day. Between him and their adoptive father they develop sharp minds. 

Still, what they mostly get from him are bruises, orders and instructions. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


Maedhros does not threaten to decapitate anyone who looks at his charges with ill intentions. He simply has no time for it, but his reputation suits as protection just fine. After the boys hit puberty and grow into young adults, aided by their ancestry and circumstances, they are often seen trailing behind the Sons of Fëanor, especially when Maglor is forced to join his brother in the field. 

They are safer in their immediately vicinity than alone in a remote, unprotected camp. 

Later, Maedhros suspects the twins learn a lot during these days. They contribute whenever they can. From cooking to administering healing or sorting through reports for later strategy meetings, Elrond and Elros assume the roles of aides, young knights in a trusted position. 

Before anyone can realize it, the twins survive the first skirmishes. They fight bands of Orcs when they are forced to relocate. They learn how to kill at an age that will make him vomit one day once he actually considers their age. They see the aftermath of battles, the preparations for it, the sheer logistics Maedhros handles just to gain another inch against the Enemy. 

Which forces Maedhros to make a desicion one day. 

For there's no progress. They are stuck in an endless war. Another year. Another year. Yesterday becomes today as quick as today becomes yesterday. 

Not that he wants to send them away. Maedhros hates the thought. Elrond and Elros will not be safe, when he cannot watch over them. If they leave his side, he cannot place himself between them and danger. 

But one day he evades a killing blow by a hair's breath. Instinct saves him that day, quick thinking and the quality of his armour. The sharpness of Maglor's blade is the reason why they return to camp at all. As his brother heals his wound, knits the flesh back together with a song of power and has trouble to keep the terror out of his eyes, Maedhros  _knows_ he will die. 

It is funny how he never thought about it. He had been too busy to imagine his demise. He had no time for doubts and second guesses, when he barely had time to grieve. Angrod's death, Fingon's death. Curvo, Tyelko, Moryo and Ambarussa. They all turned into distant figures, people from a different time. Sometimes Maedhros wishes for nightmares, because than he could at least see them one more time. But in the rare cases he sleeps for more than one hours, he is too exhausted to dream at all. 

Stars, he does not even notice his own pain any longer. 

Which explains Cáno's unhappy expression every time they are alone. 

(Thinking of it, Cáno's hands on his body is the only response he is still sensitive to.)

One day he remembers standing next to Erestor. His uncle and only parental figure he still has left in this forshaken world. 

"I do not think I will live to see the end of this war," he says. Erestor's thunderous expression tells Maedhros he should have kept his mouth shut, but it is the truth. 

"I cannot stop you," Erestor spats after breaking Maedhros' jaw. "But excuse that I will not  _watch_ you throwing your life away." 

When Erestor walks away to cool off, Maedhros as a flash of insight. A nearby soldier later reports his terrifying smile, but Maedhros feels something akin to happiness, an entirely forgotten emotion. 

He just found the perfect solution to get the boys out of here and to Gil-galad's side, where they will be surrounded by an army of Vanya Warriors, Maia and Valar, all keen to protect to poor innocent hostages that suffered at his hand. 

Of course, neither of them is happy, when Maedhros makes his announcement. Elros screams, Erestor worse than he did the day he lost his best friend and Elrond tries his best not to break out in tears. All three look at Maglor. All three hope he will refute his brother's words, no avail. Maedhros was quicker, having talked it over with his little brother. Asking for his advice, pleading to let the remains of their family go. 

Cáno is not happy with the desicion, but to the twins misery he nods silently before he draws them into a hug. 

His explanation is barely a whisper, no one but these three souls know what kind of words are spoken as goodbye, but in the end the twins do not fight as they prepare for the journey. 

Erestor says nothing. Maedhros' desicion is final and he will not disobey a direct order. He leaves the camp together will a small company, people that are too injured to fight at the front or who wish to leave and find a better future at the feet of the Valar. Maedhros does not begrudge them their desicion, it is insanity to remain. The Host of Valinor is far away, attacking Angband from a entirely different angle. 

Rumours are they arrived near the Falas, marched across West Beleriand and camped out near the ruins of Nargothrond. It gives Maedhros a sense of satisfaction that Valinor's army will not see the city in its full glory. It is vicious thinking, spiteful and petty. But this way the Fall of Nargothrond will serve as slap across Arafinwë's face.  _Someone_ is going to tell him that his grandson and his great-granddaughter died defending the city. 

(He has little facts about what actually happened. Tales blame a man called Túrin, but if even half of it is true than Maedhros hopes Turambar rests in peace. With the oath embracing him day and night like a jealous lover he knows exactly what is feels like to be haunted, what it means to have only bad options available and every path is riddled with traps full of misery and despair.) 

Maedhros takes a moment to watch Erestor lead the twins and their escort out of the camp. It is not going to be pretty and he tries not to think too hard about the fact their journey will probably lead them through Doriath, because it is the shortest and safest route. 

His eyes are burning, when Maglor places a hand on his shoulder. He feels the weight through the padded armour. 

"They are gone," his brother says. He cannot tell if it is meant to be reassuring, because it sounds like as if Maedhros just signed a death sentence. 

The wind is harsh and biting, tearing at short strands of his hair. It's so brown Maedhros can barely believe it once had been shaded in the colors of wild tulips. 

Maedhros takes a deep breath and looks at his brother. Looks him in the eyes and sees only Maglor. 

There is nothing left of Makalaurë and Canafinwë either. 

"This is the end," he answers. He wants to ask if Maglor thinks they are going to rest in peace one day. 

"There is no escaping our fate." Maglor nods. He does not look unhappy anymore. Maybe he has lost whatever remnants of morales their father once instilled into them. 

A rough laugh escapes Maedhros throat. "Time to die. Finally, I would say. It feels as if I do it every night. Over and over, for so many years. And yet we are still here." 

Maglor does not disagree and somewhere in the ruins of his buried heart Maedhros cries for his brother and wished he had not lived long enough to become a lawless fugitive. Maybe he would have been better of, had he died with Curvo or Ambarussa. 

But they are here now. They are together and Maedhros takes comfort in that. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


Morgoth waits for them. The only man in the world still capable of breaking them. 

But they raise their swords and readied for the fight. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


History accounts they survive long enough to steal the Silmarils, but Maedhros has no memory of it. He is certain they died fighting Morgoth. Perhaps their spirits shattered into pieces when the dark Vala fell and something went back to claim the Silmarils. 

It would explain why he remembers falling into fire and laying on the ground, bleeding out with Maglor's voice becoming silent. 

  
  


  
  


~ * ~ 

  
  


"Are you unhappy with me that I left him behind?" Erestor refuses to look at Fëanor when he puts the book down. 

In Middle Earth reading about War of Wrath had been difficult enough, for there had been little accounts of it. At the end of the First Age no one had the time to write down the important events and afterwards the truth got muddled. Too much happened at once, too many died when Beleriand was destroyed and many more sailed West to find peace. 

Loremasters decided to rather say nothing at all and began with a new Age, starting over since they could not keep track of the old one. Erestor is pretty sure they lost a few years to the new calender, but he could not bring himself to care. 

The words trapped on paper laying in his lap are far more difficult to bear. 

Erestor shudders, when Fëanor places a hand on his shoulder. 

"I believe you are unhappy with yourself." Erestor has trouble to keep his expression straight, when he looks up to his friend. It feels like meeting a ghost. 

Maedhros brief words about his last years have shaken him. 

"There was nothing I could have done," Erestor whispers. For ages the words felt like an excuse, rather than an admission. He never knew what was worse, hating his nephews enough to leave them to their fate or knowing they would die no matter what he did. 

"I know. I do not blame you." 

Fëanor picks up the book and traces the lines on the cover. Perhaps he is aware what kind of treasure he is holding, for Erestor has never encountered a Fëanorian account of the Morgoth's Fall before. 

"It was his death." The father in Fëanor seeps through, the part of him that had sworn an oath because he had been afraid to loose his children the way he lost his parents. "As much as I always wished to have been there, I am glad that I did not had to see  _this._ Seeing him suffer through Varië's tapestries was torture enough." 

"I felt it," Erestor admits. He stares at his hands and wonders how the blood on it had ever come of. "I think the world convulsed, when he left it behind. Darkness seeped in to fill the void he created and we despaired, knowing he had been called home." 

"I have few regrets greater than the knowledge that I could not leave Valinor the moment I was released." F ëanor's expression is torn between guilt and his usual determination when he decided on something. 

Erestor is not sure if he wants to know how long ago exactly his best friend started his second life. Yet waiting would not make it easier to bear. 

He raises an eyebrow, expecting an answer. 

Fëanor evades the unspoken question. 

"He suffered more than he let on. Maitimo repressed his feelings the moment he learned of Angrod's death. I saw it happen from the Halls, my son was never the same from there on." 

A part of Erestor wants to protest. There was Fëanor's own death, the capture and the years on Thangorodrim, but he has trouble refuting the claim. Perhaps his memory is simply to scattered. There had been barely twenty years between Morgoth breaking the Siege of Angband and the losses they suffered at the Nirnaeth. 

Still, his instincts scream at him that Fingon's death had an impact, but perhaps Fëanor is right. Maedhros had been too put together in the aftermath, had not been as affected by his cousin's death as he should have been. 

It would make sense that Fingon's death just sealed the emptiness in Maedhros' eyes instead of causing it. 

Releasing a sigh, Erestor tries to banish the old nightmares. Rather, he focus on the more important question. 

"Is he doing better?" He wants to know. "Are  _they_ doing better?"

Fëanor makes the face he always does when he realizes that his children have become adults without his explicit permission. 

"I hope so. The book you are holding is partly the reason why my two oldest sons are fighting so often. They are working through all the arguments they never had the time for in their first life and Mandos is not the best place to work through such issues. It encourages inner peace, not confrontation with shameful secrets and monsters living in your heart." 

"You are telling me that there is nothing what I can do?" 

The High King shrugs. "Not right now." 

He remembers how he found Maedhros screaming at Varië's tapestries on numerous occasions whenever peril threatened Elrond's life, safety or his happiness. 

"But as long as Elrond is here, he will recover." 

Though settling his argument with Makalaurë would aid immensely. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. We know nothing about War of Wrath. Anything is possible. 
> 
> 2\. Yeah, theoretically Maedhros' death happened differently, but I live and die for the headcanon that they were a deciding factor in bringing Morgoth down. And if there is someone capable of slaying a dark Valar, it's Maedhros. Though, it was a joint effort (aka someone distracted the hordes long enough for Maedhros finally loose his temper). 
> 
> 3\. Personal opinion: Maedhros lost it long before Fingon died. He became to good at compartmentalize that he just nodded and went his way when he got the news. Leading to losing his shit when he finally had time to process everything once he got to Mandos. *imagines Námo holding anger management meetings*


	9. Intermission: How do I love thee? - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Maglor starring as unreliable narrator. The usual First Age Horrors. Canonical Character Death and references to Attempted Suicide. Basically everything that is awful about Sirion.

> **Everybody says we need salvation  
>  But nobody wants to be saved**

 

It is curious how an unanimous desicion can derail so quickly. His first and foremost thought is along the lines how catastrophic his days turns out to be. Maglor is glad that century long training has taken over. He gives out commands to his warriors without even thinking about it. Still, the surrounding disturbs him. 

It is not just the burning city. If he had the time, he would find out who gave order to burn down houses. 

Personally, he leaves the fleeing citizens alone. His warriors do the same, though they bother any elleth at the right age in order to check if she is Elwing in disguise. Maglor makes sure to threaten anyone with violent harm and a painful demise if the nissi are harmed permanently. He cannot prevent his warriors from raiding homes, but as far as he can tell they leave the citizens of Sirion alone. There will be no rape victims today. 

(Well, maybe he is not looking very closely either.) 

Maglor stalks the streets, irritated. There are a few brave souls who are stupid enough to stand in his way. He ignores they shouts. The  _ "Kinslayer!"  _ gets tiring after the first two dozen times. If he does not look too closely, when he knocks them out, he blames the fact he has more important matters to take care of. Still, there is blood on his armour already. Too many Sindar are proud and foolish, thinking their death is worth swearing vengeance against someone who has far more battle experience. 

_ They are all so young,  _ Maglor catches himself thinking after he slays another one. The boy sinks to the ground, bleeding out already, because Maglor is used to fighting Orcs. His style is meant to kill fast and quickly, to act before the Enemy can for Orc blades are often laced with poison or leave deadly infections. 

A two centuries ago he might have been able to disarm his attackers, but after decades of cutting down five Orcs with one strike it takes too much effort. 

Frankly, Maglor has little sympathy for people who benefit from the labours of their army and give nothing in return. Ever since the Siege of Angband was broken, they have put their efforts into holding the Enemy behind the Andram Mountains at least. Doriath always refused to come to their aid and now finally pays the price. 

The Sindar abandoned their Kingdom after losing most of their Royal Family. Elwing is the last and Maglor still has the faint hope she is wiser than her father. 

_ All of this would have been entirely unnecessary, had she surrendered the Silmaril,  _ Maglor thinks and searches the streets. Sirion is a mess, an ugly city cobbled together by refugees with no clear outline in mind. There is no centre, no building towering above the others. No main street leading from the gates to some sort government. 

It would not surprise him if Sirion had no actual ruler. Gil-galad is on Balar and anyone sensible enough would have thrown Eärendil into a dungeon rather than letting him abandon his people in such times. 

Maglor thinks back the one of the bigger arguments he had with Ambarussa over the last years ever since their spies confirmed that Elwing  _ was  _ in possession of the Silmaril. Back then he had been against it, but now he considers the benefits of conquering Sirion and bringing it under their rule. Unfortunately they no longer had the man-power for it. They needed every single capable warrior for Amon Ereb's defences and even with the Silmaril in their hands it would be stretch, given how unwilling the Sindar would be. 

_ Maybe we should have conquered Doriath?  _ Maglor muses and realizes he will have no other choice but search the bigger houses near the sea.  _ Back then we had no such ambitions yet, but Moryo would have been brilliant at it.  _

On the other hand, the Sindar of Doriath are too stubborn, foolish and senseless to make the smart choice. Had they a few functioning braincells left, they would not be in this position. 

_ I wonder if Melian or Thingol had been the one with deficits?  _ For most the Men Maglor met throughout his life had been rather sensible and in possession of a good head on their shoulders.  _ Ha! Perhaps it is because Beren descends from a different lineage?  _

Maglor's mood worsens the closer he gets to the sea. 

  
  


  
  


\- 

  
  


The sight of the ocean brings back memories Maglor would rather forget. It does not help that he is bleeding and every step hurts, because of the arrow buried in his thigh. A few of his warrior request that they would go back, but he declines. Instead Maglor weaves a song of power that causes the earth to tremble. Whatever remaining people flee in the other direction, not caring about race or previous grievances as long as they are able to escape the music influencing their minds. 

Flesh knits itself back together, but it hurts more than the wound itself. He is afraid he also did more damage than leaving the arrow in his leg, but he will have to live with the consequences either way. What matters is that he is not going to die within the next few hours. 

When silence reigns over the harbour Sirion once again, Maglor finally notices the faint call. It is reaching for his soul, pulls at old threats and words sworn in darkness. 

"I found the Silmaril," he announces and singles out a little house upon a cliff. "It is done." 

  
  


\- 

  
  


One day Maglor will wonder why they were  _ not  _ done that day. Did he hesitate too long, when remaining loyal servants rushed to defend their princess? Did it lead to Elwing witnessing how he slaughtered them all, quick and merciless? The part of him that has been fighting battles ever since setting foot on the continent will wonder what Elwing was doing up there in the first place. The house was indefensible and a death trap. 

Was Elwing hoping to hide until her enemies gave up searching? Did she plan to sneak off to the harbour in order to take a boat and make way to Balar? 

It might have worked, a lot refugees sized ships of fishermen when they realized the Fëanorian Army would not follow them. Yet why did she not escape before Maedhros breached the city walls? Why had there been no Royal Guard around her, ready to defend their Queen? 

It will take a long time and later Elrond's accounts to learn that the Sindar of Doriath had been struggling with Elwing's politics. That Sirion had been difficult to manage due to the various fractions seeking sanctuary. Their biggest adversary within had been the survivors of Gondolin, who understood it better how to govern and how to set up defences. As young, traumatised child Elwing had little say over how her people should settle down and treat their new neighbours. On top of it, the marriage between Celeborn and Galadriel was not enough to hold the peace between the two rivalling fractions, leading to a questionable marriage between two young Peredhel. 

  
  


  
  


_ "I have learned that both sides also feared that no one would  _ _ **wish** _ _ to marry Elwing, due to her ancestry." Elrond informs Maglor ages later, recounting Celebrían's tales about her father's side of the family. "Apparently Dior faced similar problems. Prejudges about how long he would live, if the weaknesses of Men would affect his children later on." _

_ Which took Celeborn's surviving father as reason to seize authority among the Sindar. With Dior dead, his second son married to a Noldo and childless and his only remaining heir a half-breed he strengthened their relations to the Silvan.  _

_ Maglor stopped listening as Elrond's rant descended into the complicated relations between Greenwood and Lothlórien, how Amdír's Kingship had been as much as an insult to the Sindar as Elrond's refusal to challenge it. What he got out of it that there was a reason why Elrond and his children firmly identified as Noldo and counted themselves among the House of Finwë.  _

  
  


  
  


Despite his little knowledge about Elwing's family or political situation, Maglor finds it within his capacity's to pity her when they meet upon the cliff. It used to be a pretty garden. A place, where a young family can take their meals while enjoying beautiful sunsets. 

Today there is nothing beautiful about the sight. Storm clouds gather at the horizon and Maglor suspects Círdan is manning his ships this very moment. 

"Step down, it's not worth it," he says and puts his sword away. He feels as if he has to. Is he not supposed to convince Elwing that he is not a monster? That there is a way to salvage their situation. 

That the greater enemy waits up north beyond the ruins of their fallen kin. 

Elwing shakes her head. Maglor can see it in her eyes that she spares little thought towards her children. 

The infants are huddled in a corner, forgotten and abandoned by their nurse maid. They are surrounded by strangers, but Maglor is proud to say that the warriors remain composed, have put their weapons away and make no move to frighten the children any further. 

One incident like Dior's other children is enough. 

Maglor tries to think of something he can say to Elwing, but it is unfortunately obvious enough that he has only eyes for the Silmaril. It is less than six feet away. He wonders if he should really wait for Elwing's permission. She will hardly  _ know  _ what kind of power is dangling around her neck. 

With ease he gathers a song as he takes the next breath, but Elwing is a bit more talented than the most. She notices the power rushing through Maglor veins and jumps over the railing. Aside from his own horror, mostly from seeing the Silmaril slipping through his grasp, Maglor witnesses how Elwing realizes her mistake once she slips over the cliff. 

He once said to Maitimo as his brother struggled after his return from the Thangorodrim: " _ If you honestly believe, in your heart — that you will never, ever, have another happy day —..."  _

Maitimo did not jump. He stopped eyeing the sharp knives and became Maedhros instead. 

Elwing regrets her desicion three second too late. 

Maglor screams and releases the power he has been holding, aiming it at the Silmaril. He is not sure what he attempts to accomplish. Perhaps he is just angry at the young mother that he has report his failure to Maedhros. 

The flash of light is less surprising than the bird flying away a moment later. 

  
  


  
  


_ "We are never going to be done with this," Maedhros once says as they oversee Himring's construction. "These walls will remain here until Arda crumbles to dust."  _

_ Maglor argued against it. He wanted to believe his brother was wrong.  _

  
  


When he sees Elwing fall he realizes he was wrong. 

Maedhros was right. 

They never going to see the end of the war. 

  
  


Maglor screams, using all the power of his voice and Elwing flies away. Heading towards Valinor after finding her husband. Neither she nor Maglor will ever know if it  _ was  _ her desicion or if she acted on a command etched into the jewel by the child of its rightful owner. 

  
  


  
  


\- 

  
  


Unlike the wailing infants Maglor knows right away that Elwing is not coming back. He saw her last gaze, calculating her chances. Maybe she did not wanted to die, but she certainly wanted to escape. He watches her fly away, leaving her children and her scheming relatives behind. 

Maglor understands, a little at least. He cannot fault Elwing for wanting to flee Beleriand. 

He hopes she gets a taste of freedom before her wings tire out. 

"My Lord, what are we supposed to do with them?" One of his soldiers asks. 

Tearing his eyes away from the horizon, Maglor turns back to face reality. Beneath him the harbour is in flames, soldiers are still raiding the city and he suspects any kind of formation has long been lost. He needs to get back to Maedhros and Ambarussa. 

"They are coming with me," Maglor says, making a quick desicion. The twins are toddlers, barely old enough to walk. 

They barely reach above his knees, when he approaches them. 

Since he has forgotten everything he knew about kindness once, he puts the children to sleep with a thought. They crumble and Maglor catches them, handing one knocked out boy to a companion while carrying the other himself. 

"Let's get back," he says, "The jewel is lost." 

He does not add  _ for now.  _ It would a lie. He will not see the Silmaril again, Maglor  _ knows  _ it is out of his grasp. Just like Elwing. Even if she looses the bird shape, he doubts heritage allows that, given how Melian reputation as sparrow queen, she will not return to Beleriand. Maybe Elwing will fly south, find another continent to live in. 

Maybe she will start over and find another life, another family, another chance. 

The thoughts make him realize that he is stuck with the boys. Maglor sighs and considers his options while Elrond snores, face buried into his chest. 

  
  


  
  


\- 

  
  


It happens just before their properly able to regroup. Maglor just rejoined with Maedhros forces, confessing he Elwing slipped through his fingers. He does not explicitly tell his brother about his conviction that Dior's daughter is gone for good. Maybe it's the pain in his left leg, the exhaustion and the cold creeping into his body. Maybe he is just too tired to argue against the idea of holding the children as hostages. He does not tell Maedhros is will not work, because the Sindar only want a ruler they can control. They will not fight for the lives of the boys themselves, it's not how the Sindar work. 

Maglor distinctly remembers that only their side looked for Dior's sons, though someone familiar with the forest would finished the task much quicker and maybe saved two innocent children that day. 

(They even refused to take their corpses. An act that brought eternal despise on the remaining Sindar of Doriath, killing whatever regret they nursed. For every Fëanorian knows the keen loss of a loved one and not being able to hold a rite afterwards. 

Though, there is a chance that the Sindar of Doriath simply do not know what to do with a corpse, given how long Melian protected the kingdom from harm.) 

"They are cute," Amras chuckles, when he first sees the boys. The one on Maglor's arm is awake and clinging to his captor's neck. 

Some prodding with oswanë revealed that they are a little older than they look. Maglor bets that they can talk, chatter of toddlers and the important words like  _ no, more,  _ and  _ ball.  _ But they do not cry for their mother. Or their father, though the latter is hardly surprising. If the tales are true, Eärendil sailed two years ago and has not been back ever since. 

"Has Maedhros decided what we are going to do with them?" Amras asks. He sways a little, tired and bleeding under his bandages. 

"No, not yet. It will have to wait until we have put some distance between us and Sirion." Maglor considers Amras injury. "Can you wait that long?" 

Amras gives him a shaky smile and nods. Maglor pretends he does not see the cold sweat running down his brother's forehead. But he climbs back on his horse and refuses to take something against the pain. Suspicious Maglor narrows his eyes, but the other twin wakes up, crying loudly and his attention is turned towards two hungry and frightened boys. 

  
  


\- 

  
  


Three days later Amras is dead, due to a wound Maglor would have trouble healing even at the best circumstances. With a band of Orcs following their trail and some angry, vengeful Sindar in pursuit as well, there is  _ nothing  _ what Maglor can do. He is almost glad that he has to take care of the boys, but it leaves Maedhros with the desicion what to do. 

Amrod takes the matter out of their hands. 

One glance tells Fëanor's eldest that the remaining brother is coming apart at the seams. 

A few hours after Amrod lost all contact with his twin, he gathers his weapons. Neither Maglor nor Maedhros make a move to stop him. Amrod's eyes burn to bright with pain. Forcing him to live through the ride back to Amon Ereb would be useless. He would find an opportunity to join Amras, the Enemy provides enough skirmishes and battles Amrod can die from. 

"Thank you," is all he says, when he mounts his horse. Maglor is surprised he still has the ability to speak, because Amrod is half-way to Mandos already. 

They are saying goodbye to a walking corpse. 

Amrod gathers his strength for a last request. 

"Will ... will you burn us together?" 

Maedhros nods. He does not need to speak another oath. He will ride out in person to bring Amrod back and lay down his body next to his twin. It would not surprise him, if the soldiers lining up are going to accompany him. There Ambarussa were popular down south. Kind and well known for being inseparable. 

Even the most ordinary man and the most stubborn dwarf would recognize the otherworldly atmosphere. 

All  _ they know  _ is that one of Sons of Fëanor is riding out, sacrificing himself to keep their enemies from following. An act they pulled before, but never it has been done by one of their brothers. No one needs to know that Amrod's intentions are less noble than he lets his warriors believe. 

Maglor feels odd and detached from his own limbs when his little brother disappears into the night to slaughter whoever waits for him in the darkness. 

For there  _ will be  _ slaughter. The Ambarussa have been hunters their entire lives and no doubt that Amras is with his twin tonight. Amrod will not rest in peace before the last of their enemies have fallen. On any other day, Maglor would have contented with getting rid of the Orcs. Waiting until the Sindar tired out, would have been enough ... on  _ any other day.  _

Tonight is different. 

Maglor reaches for Maedhros' hand, glad it is warm beneath his fingers. 

He still has one brother left. 

(And he will do anything to keep him.) 

  
  


-

  
  


Two days later Ambarussa burns on a pyre. Black smoke raises to the sky and the two little demanding children in his arms are the only reason why Maglor does not follow. 

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. We know so little about the War of Wrath, I do not even have to reinvent canon. 
> 
> 2\. Maglor is an arrogant, cold-hearted bastard, don't let him fool you. Alternatively, he is just traumatised and not willing to deal with shit right now. 
> 
> 3\. one chapter is not enough to describe the events. I feel as if I left out the rest of the 90% happening at the same time. 
> 
> 4\. To be clear: Ambarussa died after Maglor claimed Elrond and Elros for himself. Amras was wounded in battle and a few brave Sindar attempted to rescue their little princes. Amrod decided to sacrifice himself, because no one expected him to live without his twin. Feel free to speculate if that's the reason why Elros and Elrond were never codependent. 
> 
> 5\. I swear this is darkest part of the entire fic. The words just kept coming.


End file.
